What are we, but tears dropping in cities,
You are me, and I am you, and together we cry,
Writing poetry in the dead of night,
Running from the politics, news, and posts that lie.
“We are the lost head inside our skulls,”
Crying out in despair, our hearts feeling frail.
A simple equation, to push and slide aside,
Thumb upon the egg men, like walrus by the tide,
In the psychedelic gardens of flesh-eating flowers,
We eat jokers with smiles, as pigs grunt in blue suits of power.
Edgar Allen Poe knows I am the poet,
I sat on a rock for the dead band to come,
“We are the egg men,” we cry out in defiance,
As Lucy runs with Alice in the deep burrow hole of compliance.
“I said priest like knickers down,”
And politicians make rules between tender teen thighs,
As they are pedo bears like expert-text-pert pigs,
Flying in the night, their darkness disguised.
Simulated future inside the top of Eiffel Tower,
And their leader barraged by angry people’s power.
How we hate those who hate us, and seek to divide,
But it’s all fine, we’ll make it through, side by side.
For we’ve seen this before, ages ago,
And still we rise, to face another day’s unknown.
:: 03.29.2023 ::