He’s on-stage swaying to music, eyes closed,
The world shut out. No one is worthy enough
To be admitted to his private thoughts.
Or maybe he’s dancing because the beat
Has seized his girth and loaded his feet with lead.
His head droops, rolls right and left in surprise
That he can dance though less than half alive.
The music stops but he hears an inner call,
The tapes of his stupidity loop against
A soundtrack of greed. Others use their brains,
He uses the cunning of a sick animal
To filter out common sense and decency.
His genius springs from an unhealed wound.
He must be right. To be wrong is instant death.
He dances to the music of his lies,
The rhythms of disparagement and hate.
Everything exists to be owned by him.
He collects reality and makes it sludge.
His explosive ego would blow up the world
If that’s what it took to prove he’s always right.
He breathes out his infection toward the crowd.
He’s the whole world. What need of anyone
Or anything else that might hinder him?
Other people exist to suffer or serve.
He’s a masterpiece of woven falsity.
Everyone else is a prop or fiction
He invented to fill up empty space.
He owns and therefore he is. You’re his toy.
