Kill the lights
and stuff our mouths
with a dozen red roses
frozen in winter.
Forfeit the petals
of sweet perfume
that once were plucked
with care;
only sharply
stinging thorns
remain to be served
on silver platters
as Rorschach patterns
are forged in the fire.
Abstractions may help
to tame the mind
while beasts are slayed.
Cut the cord
and smash the screen
of the televised war machine.
Agents of deceit
smell like swine
smeared in paint
from plush studios,
dressed to the nines
in plastic suits
to sell their swill
that God is dead
and love is war
and just one more
little white lie
will elevate your flesh
to a higher level.
But what happened
to that soul
you left behind?
There are some folks
who will punch you
square in the nose
and then proceed
to whine and moan
in victim mode
when the blood spills
and ruins their shoes
of suede
with crimson stains.
Burn the books,
they howl at night
with propaganda
laced in their eyes
and voices
spitting venom
disguised as righteous.
What a ruckus
in the mud pit
where we’re swimming.
It’s such a shame
that life must be
so brutal sometimes,
but that’s the way
that chaos plays
its sordid game
to stir the pot
and force us to face
old problems.
The scales are weighed
with feathers
all the while.