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cold and crumbling circles take us
breathed by broods of basilisks make us

blinding minds to yawning flaws, metal shards

the dead man's cards

basilisk bards


The words of prophets nourish

the curds of profits flourish

political genome linked

watch the planet decay, we blinked

the obvious is there

oppressive games pick their

players like FBI or MI6, KGB, or CIA

corporatic incomes pay

rise rise rise, a bully's knuckle

dense weight at top, the clay legs buckle

Job creators for Ivy league

connected families intrigue

the ironic cyclonic lies

are trapped within the eyes

myopic view of future, next quarter

Socialism, Communism, Marxism

demonized to a wobbly schism

as they gulp their bowls

of soylent green and acme holes

well oiled machines and hunchbacked voles

belief in a creator, a king coming back

gripped tightly by power lest there be attack

using faith as a voting, political agenda

and fool the workers with this referenda

"what matters a wage slave life

or a sickly world, our payment rife

with silver mansions on streets of golden mortar"

as one insignificant planet heaved

from the most virulent parasites yet recieved:


Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


Sure I think a world glamoured by shiny rocks and fool's gold instead of things that heal us, bring us together and carry meaning that can't be reflected in a spreadsheet or quarterly budget is a fools errand. I thank you Beau, for the kind words about that word play, it wrote itself. This sat around the site for a couple weeks without a hit, so I went back in and fine-tuned a lot of the first bits. The irony that our vision of success is the exact thing that destroys what sustains us: It's a Monty Python sketch only not so funny. What's the answer, scream until my throat tastes of blood and my body is falling beneath me? Perhaps. Thanks for reading my work.


Blue Demon77

"What I want is to be what I was before the knife,
before the brooch pin, before the salve, fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind."

The Eye Mote-Sylvia Plath

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