Pataphor

We live in pataphorical times,

the vote is for playground bullies,

one Eton-veneered, the other

not schooled at all,

they have run off

to the biggest circus,

the greatest show-offs on earth.

Both are inclined to rotundity

only one is orotund,

the other speaks in ungrammatical tongues,

dada-ist soundbytes:

his noise the screeching of a chimp.

They echo each other despite

the distance between them.

Yet: “we need a strong-man”,

“we need a bruiser,

to drain the swamp”,

whilst all we have is Oz

and his fairground barker,

in the menagerie of despair.

The alligators are in charge -

so long and thanks for all the cash -

shaky movers and flaky dealers

are heads of “things”.

Whether for Thanksgiving or Christmas,

the turkeys’ vote is all that counts.

Paper tigers, lions in their own minds,

there is nothing they cannot fail at.

At once the ringmaster and the clown

are in charge of the circuses of state.

So much power, so much influence

in the bloodied hands of sawdust-ed fools.