at least the dictator is but one man, and incompetent, constantly disorganised; the western cult of democracy? organised toward the point of a fetish, and a secretive bunch of weasels that they are, representing opposition as some sort of instigation of psychiatric intervention, whether by direct interaction, or by indirect interaction of "naming" and "shaming"; ******* weasels. allow enough rats into the labyrinth of your short-legged lies, and they'll nibble gladly at you, until you'll be walking of former representations of legs, i.e.: stumps; like those gangrene pigeons you sometimes see in urban areas, limping the **** out of what was supposed to be a queasy strut; meat-heads that they were, head-banging all the time.

.                   so much love turns into
writing,
   how perfected we seem
to become,
      having loved a blank
stare of a page...
      having loved that
white flag of defeat...
   while a billion chinese brood
over a lost competition
that we gave them
   to begin with...
          so much "love" is poured
into the ritual cauldron
of summoning words -
  and still the spaghetti-confusion
of tangled reasons -
      ah, my hot-rod viper
of sentiment,
            the lemongrass
perfume you ooze,
                   mingled with
                an accent of lilies -
come the feast,
            patron orpheus without
a the *corinthian helm of hades,
that might allow
the god to pass into the realm
of the forefathers,
the titans, in the realm
                           of tartarus;
oh, but what love on the page,
on the colour of defeat...
    how loving these hearts seem,
and they think they can reconcile
love with
    the idle fancy, the idle talk
of "poetry"...
    where! where
          is the poetry worthy
of titans!
   to narrate the trojan war!
  to establish the trojans
          establishing rome!
where?! where?!
             what a futile harvest
of words...
   philosophy
          didn't destroy poetry...
democracy did:
  too many have spoken,
                      and too little was said;
so much sober, idle ventures
that requires anyone
   with a lust for words,
    to become reduced to a drinker,
   a patron saint, of no other,
than of dionysus, who's father
be known as the realm, already stated.