June, 2020 – Hell in a Handbasket - 4. Part Four: The Maggot

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Part Four: The Maggot

From a Time of Plague II

XIX.

From this point in time when Death stalks the land,

A brandy-burning from the throat pray tells

Future generations to take their stand

And not drink the koolaid of poisoned wells.

Each tragedy is individual,

As involute, we must each go alone

On to the Dark where we’ll answer in full

For the loam of guilt couching our tombstone.

So learn no lie political can live

In the purifying air of death:

There'll come a time when every truth will give

Testimony to what we did with breath.

Burns the death throat with the brightest knowing,

The forthright liquor of Truth brooks no forgoing.

XX.

Like a length of hose with a million holes,

The stub of a So-Called man super soaks

His dope-addled groupies of the false polls,

To flood the Supremacist wet-dream of folks.

Therefore, think you actions of the courts, or

The cops’ brutal license to murder all,

Is unrelated to Gop plans for the poor

Where fear, prison, silence governs wherewithal.

For no, there’s no accident now at work

But collusion from The Blue and The Red,

And the gown-wearing Judges who can smirk,

Doling out injustice, and not bread instead.

No healthcare; no caring; no Liberty

For those the Rich brew the bitterest tea.

XXI.

Modern politics

like modern police

Pull the gun out first

then gin themselves up

A fake ‘How it Happened’

excuse for the crime.

Yes, the mayhem wrought

‘Got the fucker!” style

From behind the public’s

blank check, who-cares, shield.

XXII.

Like stigmata, are we never to see

The wounds of others inflicted on us? –

Yet have the willful arrogance to be

Those with “I’m saved!” crusted on lips like puss,

Content to let others bleed for our sins?

What happened to true Christian thoughts of shame?

That we don’t do enough when life begins

To let inequity assume the blame

For our guilty choice of complicity?

How we’ve turned our backs on the way of Christ,

And do it shamefully in Greed’s interest

Graven ‘salvation’ set where vacancy

Excised neurotic souls sold for and priced

At what thirty silver coins value best.

XXIII.

The So-Called’s Juneteenth Tulsa Debacle; June 20, 2020

Ninety-nine years and one day after the Nation’s

deadliest mass lynching and firebombing of African Americans

Dog-whistle politics eat their brains,

And though to you and me – and people good –

The Torch-Light Rallies of the Dotard’s strains

Oh hissing nonsense can’t be understood,

To the Fascist-of-Heart the doubletalk

Speaks a necrotic language of action.

White hood clad, machinegun-toting black-hawks

Hear Putin’s Puppet with no distraction.

“A November election lost,” he says,

Snickering with raw meat for his bitches,

“You’ll know what needs to be done to that ‘prez’” –

Nothing less than civil war he pitches.

As he’s a bald-faced enemy to The Constitution,

Trump’s a maggot in the American Institution.

XXIV.

In the ign'rant psychosis of the times,

The excess in Trump's subtext of blame shows

He charges others for his exact crimes,

Dreading their innocence while his guilt grows.

Clinton was 'crooked,' while Joe is 'withdrawn';

Obama equals treason – the Don knows

Is bullshit – 'cause he's traitor and Russian pawn,

Trembling at the rope's end of a new repose.

So, the seventy-four-year-old coward

Practically begs for trial and conviction,

His soul's last chance to atone for what's soured

A more Perfect Union through malediction.

At last free then from under Putin's heel,

He could make his final words something real.

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