Sonnet: Spooks and Spies and Narrative Lies
by John Kendall Hawkins
They come, mobs of unhinged idee fixees,
obsessed with soap, operas on two legs.
They come at me, like malignant pixies --
what'm I sposed to do? Break out some beer kegs?
The thought-cops aren't coming; they're now here.
Little men high-horsed on pegasuses
who flash point and say Made! Now, disappear.
Their mouths sloppy with algorithm juices.
On the telly, tubby Trump to the brim,
some foxy Fox performs fellatio,
Where was Erdogan to take one for him
in the ticker? and on the radio
Dylan sings, If my thought-dreams could be seen,
they would put my head in a guillotine.