Forty Thousand Headmen Can't Be Wrong
No one came to the block party with conceptual beasts.
There was a multitude of confused tenants lining up in traffic pushing
a poisonous social media philosophy onto the amateur players.
There was no trust among any of them; they were all left out of the loop.
They were forced to go underground on their own.
No poetry could guide them in or out of the social media jungle.
No map would show them where any of the missing peace pipes were last puffed.
I ended up all wet and existential in a concrete crisis doing backflips in the buff.
Taking defiance on the road, I discovered that dystopian dolls
drive on the wrong side of one raunchy two raunchy three raunchy four.
I figured that the grumbling music of the martini crowd could tailed behind
and never grind down Biblical sobriety onboard any planet ready for shredding.
Someone felt obligated to switch arson for assassination.
This vision spread among the candidates before any gutted media giants could scream.
The lobby nourished the sharpies who flashed folk singing smoke.
I felt enslaved by the intellectual furniture of the future.
It was all an unfathomable swirling poetic servitude.
It was all a delicious embarking into some sort of shattered social dreamscape.
I did my best to improvise a vicious jazzed drum beat.
No one heard me except the ferocious cats living on the fifth floor of delusion.
I served myself with great gusto away from the servants.
I don’t want anyone picking up after me, helping me with such mojo in the mix.
The nursemaids can all go take a flying leap into oblivion.
The wallpaper has real self-righteous rhyme peppered all over it.
Couplets everywhere pushing a sturdy hardworking medicated flair.
Yes,flair doesn’t have to be light or airy.
No no no to ludicrous trustworthy domesticity in all its flavors.
Popping up in equal amounts of sodden inflections,
I can’t continue to thrive on some bitter crappy coronation.
It is time to climb over the stains of public pungent disaster
as 40,000 headmen take a boldly drastic turn toward metaphysical traffic
and all the damnable gods that live to make the wind cry.
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