The Nil Estate

Churches, altars, Castle thrones

Instruments to maintain compliant drones

Divinely inspired

then criminally conspired

Encoded in sacred Tomes

 

Keep them illiterate and barely fed

and priests to interpret for their daily bread

Sacrilege to invent

to insure that they repent

any impurities in their head

These Kings, they ruled by rights divine

Fruit of all labors that they may dine

upon the finest that the land can give

No concerns for how others live

 

Came the rival gods, and with them new priests too

and scribes to write the version approved for public view

This god, that god, from which authority to derive?

Do you believe it really matters to people only half alive?

 

The state, their courts, their shiny network screens

Declaring a new gospel as they tell us what it means

Not for you to decide what is or isn’t true

It is their very function to explain it all to you

Sullen, then grown angry, they know they’ve been eclipsed

now that all the folks at home have their own copy of the script

 

White House Press Corps

mute-10

Daily they gather

Their own private pool

of shared filth

Warmth of idyllic bubble

Waddle, quack, duckspeak

They declare double plus un-good

Water should run off their backs

but these fowl

peculiarly thin skinned

Uniformity of color

Uniformity of thought

and the removers

of pond scum

Nice guests for dinner

roasted with heads intact

#12 Daydream

mute-12

Uprooted, these ladies of the field

Native soil washed from their feet

Colors still shine in state of suspension

Framed in dead monuments

to brothers fallen before

Wilting, they pine to return

to their home beyond the glass

Where each reflect on the pane

Where each

Reflect

On the pain

 

The Puffins

What fortunate circumstance

The day the Puffins convened

Choosing to eschew

Empire and world domination

Eyes seeing only left or right

never find the path forward

Instead to languish amid the rocks

In tidal pools

Sustained only by what the Seas will spare

And yet they are still free

No Captain

Others fought

and died for naught

Myths the elixir

Spooned from birth

Assures no crisis of conscience

upon dying breath

To the grave with hands clean

Hyperbole reigns

in a Kingdom of Queens

Tourette’s Syndrome for

the body politic

Enema bag of the Republic

a cleansing purge

Yet men will still die

for myths

No Captain at the helm

and the rats are jumping

 

Brass buckles found on a hillside

Out here at the breaking point

Where the tension snaps

and steel towers topple

Out of sight out of mind

No inconvenient views

for the vehicle of your convenience

Laboring in Lang’s sublevels

while they float away

in bubbles of artificial comfort

Their progeny consumed

with meaningless pursuits

Occupied in distraction

They do not see the hopes

that once lived in the night skies

The earth still scarred at Mort-Homme

where they delivered death

wearing God with us in brass