Six Sonnets:The Land of Contradictions

Satan
(Image by San Diego Shooter from flickr)   Details   DMCA

by John Kendall Hawkins

.

I.

Imagine a place without guns or bats,

except for the beasts and the cops;

omerta trading cards of "mades" with stats

of "sins" and deep fake pics put out by Topps;

national gay marriage "pride" is cover

for homophobes; where Mockingbird is read

the morning they later lynch the "bugger";

where the psychic norm is fucked in the head;

"no death penalty" is boasted: they "take"

folks away: out-Khoshoggi Khoshoggi;

where the flag is stamped, democracy is fake;

privacy's made a crisis of being.

It would be a tough place for endurance,

but at least they have great health insurance.

.

II.

O, the cars go by late at night like sharks

driven by monotonic megalos

who grunt, "You'll see" over and over. Ghosts

whose headlights scare the dark away. Larks --

they're on larks, hacking minds, Haneke fun

and games, maybe contracted by the gov,

psychos handed God-tools in place of Love,

and keep moving, looking for some action.

These fasc enforcers of "democracy"

create chaos, offer the solution;

you can't refuse their demagoguery,

double-binds, or Twinkie-theft volition.

Signs should be posted at immigration:

This is a vengeful Apart-Hate nation.

.

III.

There are some States that are surface First World,

sit on UN Human Rights commissions,

and don't show the world argot omissions

or secret men's business, wink-flag unfurled.

Threaten to rip your face off; eat it, too.

Like vicious animals, smiles to die for.

Cornered the market on three little words:

Hate, Anger, Evil. "Motherf*cker" you

half to death, marauding your free will;

murderers and torturers and rapists

and at least half of them are old Papists

who use Absolution to cleanse their kill.

This Dark is all so pre-Magna Carta --

volcanoes, in the name of the father.

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IV.

It's their hackneyed language that just kills ya

We have you on! the killers will snarl, Made!

Meaningless jibes and japes, terror patois,

and the People won't call a spade a spade --

least not to his face, if he's a target

of the updates you keep hearing about;

it all gets swept under the prison argot.

If you press, they'll call you 'sook' and faux pout.

They con like gypsies and will take it all --

loveless, childless to prevent extortion,

they will threaten post-partum abortion,

Satan's own, masters of the Fall.

Here prison "mades" are fabricated, say;

everybody looks the other way.

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V.

The game's to play the target, make 'em squirm

and seek a panic room inside their own head,

play with their compass -- a Truman Show worm,

toy of ashes -- humanity long dead.

You'll think, if you can, that you're in Auschwitz,

that they've perfected mind control, hate Yanks

especially -- "forget" them at the Reef --

hold them down heavy and pull out their teef.

They'll beat you snotless and say, "Where's the thanks

for our hospitality," like bush shits.

They'll scream like drills that you're f*cking with them

by staying alive, whoever they are.

But stay alive, f*ck 'em; let the golem

self-consume like a black morning star.

.

VI.

They're not invulnerable, despite their looks.

Even "Mr. Pull It!" Giuliani

RICOed most of New York's family crooks.

And no goombahs quotidiani

in Italy anymore (said with a wink).

It's ironic that populists arise

when ideals are flagging -- or down the sink,

the stale meal detritus and champagne lies.

Sad to say, you can't fight them with just words,

as they are vicious carnal animals

for whom screams are opera. Much loved turds

all rouged up like moulin venerables.

Follow the money. Look at their taxes.

Let's handcuff them. Take away their praxis.