Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Colonial Rule from Low Earth Orbit

                         Telling lies to the young is wrong

                                      -Yevtushenko, “Lies”

Corporations and nations orbit the earth
Colonial rulers as satellites and drones
Enneagramming through our attic beams
Their mad, malevolent multi-wave streams

Ideas not our own – they coil and writhe
As sinister blue lights through days and nights
Device calling silently to device
In unheard hissings of infogoguery

We rattle our electronic chains about
And proclaim our freedom
                                          (as we are told)

What did I ever do
to deserve a world where
avocados are underripe while they're overripe,
pens cede before their ink is spent,
rivers run dry, aquifers deplete?
What choice do I have
but to opt out of the technocratic misery,
overlorded by the Slither Circle,
to make my sways of the sun replete?

My country has a Military Complex
that fought wars over bananas.
My country prints Monsters on Money,
a desecrated spell to spill nature's blood
and use it in every commodity:
the ink, the encasements, the coatings,
the stains, the sealants, the wrappers,
even the food and medicine.

What did I do?
I ate. I wrote. I used.

Ever seen a list like this?
Nothing in a name that's not in me.
Want proof?

According to you, I was so, so loose,
I would have come undone.
I'm floating now, aimless, as loose
as I ever was in youth.

Ever seen a list of names
so long, you thought, what's so bad they must
escape?

Hear me now, I'm amalgamation.
Reminder that you can change your mind
as much as you like and not have to hide
the rush of your wave from the water at large.

You're in charge.

And when the trolls come along, as they must,
just trust the pull of your lungs to take
a deep, deep breath all up inside.

And say,

"Yeah, it exists in others.
It must be all up in me, too.
Yeah, I **** them off, cause
it exists in me at all --
But I'm just as much
a piece of glass.
Does your reflection
off of me make you mad?
Not much I can say to that."

I'm Gnat.

When nations give God the *******,
Remnants of his bronze-age wrath may linger
And mess with investments or data-plans
Or gender (both the mother’s and the man’s).
National cycles of slow boom then bust
Reveal the limitations of our dust—
And the Lord who prospers may change, and curse
From behind the facade of our universe.
A tech-addled farce: that’s the dying face
Of our graceless, depraved and inhuman race
Glowing with sin; lit up by tiny screens
Upon which the globalist ends and means
Seep into clueless souls. These dead-in-life
With which our funereal times are rife,
Live for online shopping, Facebook, and sports
Immune to all the incoming reports
That their doom is hastening on its way
Inexorable progress, no delay . . .
With the Sovereign Lord, there is no plan B
For the tools of a godless technocracy.

Moon butcher- weaned on courting flesh from safe
viewing, whistling to draw the blinds over fettered
flocks, all whose beaks are wired. Upon his eyes, a
monastic charm, cuffed by all means toward profane
morality, are his deeds and are his perfect misdoings.
And in the most miserable quarters of the mind,
along sad shrines where these supple thoughts are
stowed and ferried as the cattle he should drive;
Bird killer.

How mad you are– crimp hearted figure, without
lament for tattered homes and frayed hulls of a child's
laughter, pulled from heavy sacks. But all are beaten dogs
on morbid eyes, clubbed all with gentle hands and choked
with deft ideals-malformed. How artful though, that no
pinion primed should go clipped, nor aviaries-bold should
hold them here, but only should their minds be tainted–
Made whole in mechanics-belt driven. Just stay and take
my woeful Ode: Tyranny be your maxim; conformity be
our dying ways.

Dark ways; made so dark only in their leaden glare, that all
should turn and close their eyes for night. Monolithic as
mauled humans, ravished as the bark of black Willows and
pawing tides‒ all an empty obelisk of horrors-makeshift.
Pavlovian; cold soup; torn rags on the dashboard‒ and
for miles upon miles, ravaged quill over sunken hills, the
feathers poured here as ink into my ebbing dreams. Though,
to think yet that all had been warm upon a day, now too
distant and criminal. Too nefarious for notion, to hold
wolves for wool, and kooks for feathers stalked to hiding.

Try along these sacks for proof of feral merriment,
in stilled eyes and on carnal graves. All whose rotting
limbs are well studied in 'ologies of human squander-
Red with laughter, plucked with all caving souls and
anger. Gasping, so, with lewd amusement of the dead
in jest.

Muspelhiem froths forth with cold hearts, lusting of
mortal slaughter. I've seen the men whose vial looks a
barrel‒ whose foaming mouths, birthed-stillborn of
Sheol and all it's unebbing horrors, can't restrain the
joy of culling. Hate creation‒ worship crude insemination,
ravished toward the making of wilful immolation.  

But what casket of pleasant delirium, brings deaths to
child's eyes‒ no wars of misfortune must be ******
of a playful kind. Hecatombs, artistic as day‒ homes
like Tophet for children to play. But whose poison
to **** me sooner, under Black Suns and darkened
hearts, as Lucifer capers down the burrow.

It can't plausibly be, infinity;
Psilo-Cybranity
seeking liberty.

His body shivered, thy
Myth of Entactus
flowing through him.

Symbiosis
is hybridity,
Finally transcendent.