The Chaos Intact

 

Turn it on, watch the rolling farce

pass like ticker-tape once spewed

across a Rockefeller desk.

The robber-barons' hands never left

the levers of state, there has been

no prestidigitation or leger-de-main.

 

We many, we unhappy many, we band of suckers…

 

“The few are they and we are many

they have riches and we don’t have any!”

 

Shall we march with placards?

Tweet with indignation,

Unlike each and every post?

These are cakes and ale,

bread and circuses,

while the new Emperor

preens in his special clothes

and the usurers lead us by our nose.

 

The loon with the hair of candy floss

spouts ideas of spun sugar

as likely to survive the rain

as any cursory scrutiny.

 

A gimcrack government of bile and bluster,

peopled entirely with little MEN,

the distaff voice is barely heard

except in the tawdry tokenism

of our darling bud in May.

 

You few, you unhappy few, you band of mothers…

 

“The few are we and they are many:

they have power and we don’t have any!”

 

The march of crime has replaced

the march of dimes in the east,

toy soldiers in their hordes are

directed by the child-man tyrant,

re-enacting Leni’s films for

the greatest personality cult

outside reality television

and the rotted Branch in Waco.

 

The bombs provoke bombardments,

the guns – panicked rearmament.

Angst begat fear begat terror

terror begat war begat horror.

 

On and on and on and on.

Until we leap off the straight and narrow;

become the very thing we hate,

giving up all resistance,

to leave the chaos intact.