#artisticexpression
A cockroach knows a cockroach—
not by insignia,
not by the parchment framed behind mahogany,
but by the odor of survival,
that cold administrative hunger
that outlasts every anthem, every oath.
They know each other by residue.
By the practiced contempt
folded beneath public language.
By the elegant speech of sacrifice
delivered while the people’s bread
still clings to their teeth.
Neither sovereign nor savior—
only leeches lacquered in ceremony,
feeding through the arteries of the republic,
calling extraction governance,
calling decay order.
They do not arrive as tyrants do.
No drums.
No boots striking the square.
Only robes, citations, televised restraint—
the slow confidence of men
who believe institutions belong to them
by natural right.
And so the rot advances quietly.
Through adjournments.
Through sealed rooms.
Through the grammar of procedure.
Like termites in cathedral wood,
they hollow the structure from within
while praising its strength in public.
Their loyalty is primitive and exact:
hunger recognizing hunger,
filth answering filth,
one infestation sustaining another
inside the same exhausted machinery.
Cockroaches gather where public trust once stood upright.
In courts.
In studios.
In ministerial corridors perfumed
with constitutional language
and the odor of managed truth.
They feed upon justice ceremonially—
turning law into spectacle,
verdict into theatre,
delay into doctrine.
Priests of process,
parasites of the nation—
they inherit the shrine by stripping it bare,
then preach sanctity over the emptied altar.
And when the streets finally remember themselves,
when students, workers, lawyers, families
begin speaking in one rising voice,
when the screen itself burns white with outrage—
the script changes.
Suddenly corruption has a smaller face.
A safer body.
A more disposable name.
Now the disease is “fake degrees.”
Now the infestation is narrowed
to the minor and replaceable—
as though the great engines of theft
were built by clerks alone.
Strange how power launders its language.
How an insult hurled at millions
returns as precision.
How the same mouth that stripped dignity
from a generation
now retreats into footnotes,
clarifications,
televised innocence.
Even this naming feels too clean—
as if language stood outside what it serves.
But memory is stubborn.
People remember the laughter.
The contempt.
The rehearsed humiliation
disguised as public wisdom.
And slowly they begin to understand:
the law is not sacred because men recite it.
A robe does not cleanse decay.
A bench is still wood—
still elevation—
still vulnerable to the weight seated upon it.
That is the terror beneath every failing order—
not protest,
not outrage,
not even exposure—
but recognition.
The instant the public looks at power
without reverence,
without hypnosis,
without fear—
and dares to name the cockroach
while it sits upon the bench.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 1:10 PM UTC
'choice' -
it's a weird impulse.
i did not choose to write this,
clearly.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 11:22 PM UTC
there you go again
off looking for love again
no time to waste
already in another's face
replaced me in 5 days
our 54 was just a daze
can't believe i'm stuck
she just wanted to ****
and unlike you
my heart breaks in two
my time wasn't enough
i roll these drugs and puff
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC