A knife or an eye,
a youth for a tooth
These are we beliefs
inscribbled in truth
Who'th
graffiti'd
such political obscenities
on these overwatered
buildings?
Telephone bewilderings
The mummies will not win
They've hoarded all the sugar
I hate the Senatorio
He frizzle-fried a journalist
We proved it most conclusively
with cannibal ballistics;
There are teeth-marks in the gunpowder
And everyone is talking
* * *
Who are the stylized
Fascisti
throwing pomegranates
concrète
at my perpetual
theology?
Can't you see I'm talking?
No but I can
hear you clearly
staring
Talkin gin inna room
Talking in a room
Like everybody else,
My focus is complete
There is power in my fists,
the gavel pounding
on my sternum
Read my populistic banners
My macro-phonic bleatings:
There are tractors in the jetstream
Dreamers in the cellar,
Leaving messages of conscience
On your sub-
cellular teléfono
* * *
Man this isn't
righteous,
this life-and-death
decision
to
restrict the trading rights of neutrals
or install a sheriff
in the tariff
Another television Senate
A movie-extra tenet
of the multipolariolateral
unimonocular need
of people
anywhen
and everywhere
to address each other
with gratuitous
importantness
about the feelings
of their words
Listen to me bleeding!
Surrender to the mortals!
Waving arms and slogans!
Righteousness!
Injustice!
Homophonic outlaws!
Afraid of poem trees and music!
What are we to do!
How are we to choose?
I say we
Stand around in shoes,
and write another
book.
* * *
The point is that
all of us are talking
Talking always
talking
While standing in
a room
From Nero to Pelosi,
Darwin at the carwash,
Captains
of the pit-plough,
Peaches en regalia...
Everybody talking,
Standing in a
room...
Talking, also talking...
Vladimir whoever
People throwing knives
Koreans in the ice cream
Tarantino close-ups,
Tuco in a beard-noose,
Strangulated feet
* * *
What's that you say?
I say I say
From the balcony of termites,
Ivory and flag-fluff,
Gunpowder confetti
* * *
I can hear them from the gulag, my
children's bearded-dragon
drug queens,
teaching tissue-sample
simpletons
to masturbate
and read
Izquierdistas ringing clearly
Derechos in the bloodstream
Todos modos,
estamos todos
locos
Anyway, every
one is
crazy
From the messianic
Minister of Trips
To the phalanx of gang-sign
Baphomets
encased in reanimatrix
latex,
Dancing on oppression-popstars'
lips,
Sinking in an
artificial
squiggly-mire of
intelligent degenerants
* * *
Soooooo,
Is there any hope?
Will the power-drain persist?
Can I vibe my way away
from the persistent toxic
mist?
Can I defibrillate the universe
with affirmative believings?
Will I ever find the truth
if I compartmentalize
my grievings?
Shall I commence to
cutting off my crack-locks
in a crass display of
power?
Can I defeat the piglets with nothing but a protein hug
And unelected
flowers?
©January 2023
Nathan Payne
