As the Romans relaxed into a Tuscany Sunset,
Its hard to believe lost arenas would stone-weed their way
Back to sun. When the burning heat of scarred flesh
Could well smear our demeanour and true acts of violence
Be felt through dark words set to stun.
Leased from Trump S ‘O’ B is now comandeering
Hell’s Angels, who will ride on in circles, borne as they are
By one wing; the right one, of course, as they understand it,
To be refined and encouraged by gladitorial training camp
Where thoughts sting. A place for Right Wing activists
And so called ‘populist leaders’, to declare war on reason
As they bolster and preen in the pit, slapping suited stomachs
To feed on the blood and bones of the cherished,
As official Christians become Lions, devouring all,
Smearing shit across the peaks and the plains
And Brecht’s ‘jungle of cities’, as the meek of will,
Receede, while affronted – as true terror taunts us
Before caking us all in its spit.
At least in those first days of Rome, there was, in terms
Of mood, whim, or duty, some chance of winning,
Or courting chance clemency.
Now the ongoing battle is words,
For what is freedom of speech if those
Who attack can run madly?
The winds sneer, while turning,
Aware of the absence that refutes all religion
And nurtures our true fate’s secrecy.
What in the world?
How the fuck?
When did this happen?
Where are we?
Suddenly, God is called for, riding the light
Between leaves. The saving grace comes
But someone still needs to remind me:
Was God in the Serpent,
Or an active part of the tree?
Meanwhile, Bannon trains on.
Attend, sons of bitches biting the breast
That begat you,
Our blood is rising,
Mixing with milk, curdling kindness;
As chaos creates Colosseum ,
May hate’s spears rank against you,
Shattering (your) tenancy.
David Erdos 14th May 2019
Illustration Nick Victor