Political Poem

If others must starve for your largess
I’m afraid I can do little else but detest
The fact of your very existence.
I must wish it expunged from this earth.
That it no longer abort the world's rebirth.

—-a resentment simmers
Sharp and keen,
As a love unborn
That might have been.
Such is the settled detriment
Of my staid and strident sentiment.
In one moment true
The next reversed.
Though to you belongs
A blessed curse.
Or not to you?
That is to say,
At least the consequence
of my regret,
Is not a brunt you’re meant
To get.

I'll remain detached,
Or pretend I was.
Anxious as my pulse’s buzz.
The way I learned to cope
With stakes
That cost enough,
They could break
Potential’s bat.
The aggregate.
Twinkling, flapping;
T-room group of
Buddies fapping.
There’s nothing beyond this
But more of this.
Rinse repeat,
Then clean the sink.
The Wankasaurus is of course
Extinct.
As his fossil brethren.
Bones desiccate.
The mummy shambling past
The brink.
The world undone by stripped mind greed.
Bathed in wash of spilled
Back alley seed.

This poem may not quite hang together.
But neither will future reports
Accurately reflect, 
Extremely patterned weather.
Which is the face of consequence;
When environmental systems collapse.

And all for what? This fever dream?
The cuckoo’s egg of Capitalism.
That turns our children into bombs.
Or drains their lifeblood pursuant to
Meaningless jobs.

I simply cannot stand for the 1%
Atop this heap,
Who charge the broader base for rent.
And keep most souls born,
Trapped below.
The staircase they climb,
False progress,
Built on woe.

I cannot fathom how we all got here.
The slavers held aloft to be revered
By Forbes,
For their gift of fear.
Of penalties,
Of purges
Paying plight of lip-serving
Pernicious urges.
That enforce the circumstances
Of endless labor.
The common coffers
Are offshore drainage...

It’s time to see past that.
It’s time to agree.
That the future they’ve charted
'S'not where we want to be.
So let’s stop the nonsense.
Just keep slowing down.
Until we summon from somewhere
The flow of the Tao.
Need little.
Want less.
Claim your time as your own.
Remunerate with your attention.
Direct your own Ode.

We can't stay so hung up over
Process of exchange.
Or the Dithering will just continue;
Until we can no longer configure,
Ways to respond.
Ways to arrange.
Ways to keep lives being sunk
Into premature graves.

As the Sun goes down,
At the end of the day.
The only real guarantee
For the future they say,
Is one that will seem
Expectedly strange.

For we are where we are
Unguided by our augured future.
One where the very drinking water
Induces a leaden laced stupor.
In tests made by litmus,
We're status: SOCIALLY FAILED
We could still recover although much change
Is entailed.
And for that simple reason, that failing to see...
That only by the expansive application of the imagined
Approached practically.
Can we redress the sad state of our
Whole social system totality.