What be history but the
narrative of a planet's obituary?
The evidence conspiring against
powerless masses who yearn
only to live for themselves.
History's thousand year shackle
bonds us to duties and
dowries owed to
them masters who
grant us graces enough
to be a pittance of
existence, as if
they so kind
to let you wallow in
shit and cut
you to the bone
when you need
the meat, but
you far removed from that source,
that necessary umbilical cord of life.
Your mother's planetary breast.
What?
History?
Footnote of circumstance
pointing to primal circumcision,
the excision
of your dependence
upon the land supplanted
by the smooth
talking feeding hands of
emperor king pope president
sucking on a silver
spoon: feeding you bullshit, you
chew your educational cud,
take it like bitter pills and wash your brain
white like a lily, colorless
like lies.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment