Monday, June 2, 2014


Exposed to the daylight like a mullet,
The front wall sheared clean off,
And there are we, suddenly, sitting
In our living rooms of framed velvet art
Toothsome family pix, lumpy old TVs,
If “we” is used metaphorically, being not us
But a coarser, less worthy, less us us,
Whose tragic cling to creed is in itself
A fuzzy shagpile of the mediaeval mind;
So that they not we are exposed to the light
Like a mullet by the bullet by the bomb,
By the drones in their coolest droves,
This weaponry of the purest idea,
Sent by us who live not in distant kitsch
But in clean merging lines of Ikea.

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