satire – Page 12 – poems 2 die for

BASSEM

and there is Cassandra
talking nonsense again

spelling out the text
of her crazy lunatic visions

the words battering against
our brains like sticks against
a drum

better
stick with the nonsense
that we know
our friendly nonsense

the nonsense we feel
most comfortable with

that makes us feel
even as the bombs
and missiles
fall from
the sky

so much at home; so
much at home

I love this trance
feel it tingling
presence
in my bones

beyond belief
that we are
all stand so
mesmerized
together

except we
are never here
ever
allowed
to stand

always
carefully positioned
to
lie down.

livestream
bloodstream

that dam
has burst

but
when it comes
to what is in those brains
best I can say
is it
thick as porridge

thick
as muck

definitive it be
nothing flowing
from
point A
to point B

much backed up
at point D for
devoid
D for
diabolical
stupidity

where whirpool-churned
it just
congeals as

brutal distortion, doling
out of
death

all in the name of compulsion
and voice
from above necessity

Ben is
in his bunker

thr missiles cruising in
with sirens to greet them

seems hard to believe
it has come to this
and yet its author
is now the nation’s hero

king of its deepest
darkest fantasies

best at
divining
his people’s purpose

see him in the swirling
smoke and other
miasma upon
this
fiery pinnacle

speaking with God, or
perhaps we should say,
speaking to
him
or even at him

returning in triumph with
the hot word
they dance in rapture
force-
feed each other

beyond which shores
no one no
way insane
can bend their brain
to believe a single word of.

when British satire
became
(Oh, what’s the kerfuffle?)
self-
satire
(losing its old
job description)

and British comedy got
its priorities straight
putting its foot
right up its
mouth

when Goon and Python hilarity
cowed in the shadows
onset
of Orwell reality

the laughter of the gods
truly
deserted this place

left it to sink with
traditional flawed false graciousness
under the waves, get
swallowed by
ocean, reign of
old stuck-
up unconscious

spirit
of dead gravity much
bemoaned by Pope

in his assault on all things
vapid, and without
substance yet
weighed-
down by Dunce
rigidity

most righteous of true
rigidities such kingdom
could ever
know