The Us in We

 

Burnt out bastards,
bent on bemoaning and
bludgeoning the beautiful
bounty of being.

Loudmouthed lard heads,
licking the lighter fluid off their
lips like incendiary licorice,
lashing the listening with liquid death.

“Me, oh my,  oh me,” they moan,
as mercenaries march in municipalities,
making the masses memories meander
in murderous remembrances.

Clutched pearls as patrols and posse’s
play pretend police to pacify political
practices and punish perspectives of
opposing polarity.

Smiling like snakes as they slither,
from simulated sympathies to scolding
suffocations of simple societal
salvations.

Televised talking heads,
telling lies like truth,
and twisting the truth altogether
into a tortured tumbling turnstile of misdirection.

Nothing needed but nonsense,
noise and negativity to nudge the needle
toward nihilism and negligent nostalgia,
negating the neo-futurists.

Burnt out bastards,
loudmouthed lard heads,
Snakes and talking heads,
missing the point of Human beings.

Forgetting from us,
is We.

 

Another Matter for the Shoes

 

In the never-ending wait
for the other shoe to drop;
the one that also has a
pebble in it, and a nail sticking
up through the sole, and always
blisters your heel, our
anticipation reels.

We know it is coming,

we can see it,

we don’t know where it’ll

land though,

and that is what is keeping

us awake at night.

 

The shoe of Damocles,

dangling by shoestrings

over our chests,

ready to drop through our

ribs and crush our hearts,

again.

 

A shoe the size of a

continent, tumbling

end-over-end in the whistling

wind, plummeting like a dive-bombing

Stuka, wailing with alarms and

chilling the blood.

 

This uncomfortable shoe,

ugly and obscene,

greasy and grotesque,

is coming down,

and we’ll have to decide

if we’re going wear it.

 

Or chuck it into the

ashbin of history,

and get a new shoe,

on that’s clean, comfortable and

well-tailored to fit any

shoesize.

 

I like new shoes.