"The centipede is dead, not stiff" -- Chinese aphorism
“In the old days you used to be able to tell who your rulers were because they’d sit on thrones and wear golden crowns and make you bow before them. Human consciousness eventually evolved beyond the acceptability of such brazen indignities, so it became necessary for rulers to take on more of a background role while the citizenry clap and cheer for the illusory puppet show of electoral politics.
But the kings are still among us, just as cruel and tyrannical as ever. They’ve just figured out how to mask their tyranny behind the facade of freedom.” -- Caitlin Johnstone
(after the style of John Donne's "The Canonization")
For Hate’s sake, spit your final breath at Peace,
Which has not ruined, maimed, or killed
Unlike the wars which you have willed
For venal profit, power, or caprice.
Your adolescence you have shown:
A teenage twerp testosterone
(No hairs on chest or scrotum grown),
Your playground shrieks, like honking geese,
Demean yourself, not Peace.
From Hell’s heart stab at what you most fear: Peace.
Withdraw from endless quagmire? No!
Decades of failure you can show,
Yet still you claim the role of World Police.
“Democracy,” that word-like noise
(A myth your wealthy greed employs;
A metaphor for what destroys)
Means only fights whose skids you grease,
But you slip-up, not Peace.
So grapple to the last with dread of Peace.
The ones who pay the costs, not you,
Know fake from real, and false from true.
They realize that them you plan to fleece.
Your nest, their feathers: this they see.
Their broken eggs, your omelets free.
A warfare welfare just for thee.
All else for sale or rent or lease,
Except for priceless Peace.
Give up the spear in one more lunge at Peace.
The White Sardine you madly chase
Has got away, and you’ve lost face.
So you do what? You double-down, not cease.
In chicken hawk and capon clipped
You see a phoenix, not the gypped,
Impoverished, and ill-equipped
Upon whose lives you’ve grown obese.
And them you blame on Peace?
Roll on towards your obsession: loathsome Peace.
Like Cromwell dug up from his grave
By kings restored who would deprave
His corpse as warning: “Don’t think ancient Greece
Provides examples of self-rule;
Democracy has died, you fool;
OBEY! your one and only rule.
Know (should you hope death brings release):
We kill the dead. No Peace!"
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2020