Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning  glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******,
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,

'Consumption'

Once upon a time she believed in everything
Tried a little or a lot
of anything she was exposed to
Wrong didn’t exist
Some things were just unsuited
to her particular tastes
But faith and followership
are equally slippery slopes
and soon wrong wasn’t the issue,
because nothing was ever right.
Truth didn’t come in a bottle
or a box or a tin
it didn’t sit on a knife’s edge
or whisper from inky pages
or wobble in on shaky legs of sound
Right and wrong merged into
a mass of general indifference.
It began to seem that perhaps,
just perhaps
the very idea of truth
was mere fabrication
a carefully woven tapestry of entrapment
designed to subtly coerce the masses
into a single file line of submission
She was ashamed
because she was once a great consumer
of just those things
that now seemed so false
Reality was her defeat.
the end