Tacos al pastor

Look at the crazy take to his brush with a
viscous attack, a black sticky ambush.
Is this where we are? Opiate of the masses, a
red rag to a bully with his crude, cold molasses

and his salivating smile; his wood in a pile
which he lights with a match and inflammatory
bile, rubbing his hands in the blood raining
down. (“Well, what d’you know? Seems I was right

all the while.”) He made them all strip with his
brainless lament – the ninety-nine point
nine-nine-nine-nine percent – had them dance to
amuse; gave us drinks to abuse. And we cheered,

applauded, maybe even afforded ourselves a quick
toast. But you, my good friend, you surprised
me the most with your shrugging, your: “Sure,
this is bugging BUT.." Freedom of speech. Your

rights, your "debate". Check how the language of
liberals is chopped and pan-fried, caramelised,
the sugars released to a waste of spices, all
masking that taste: a pinch, a soupcon of

homegrown hate.