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*sigh* I was going to start my April poem-a-day yesterday but I didn't really get to it. And today's poem is rather less-than-good, disjointed and jagged. This is an inauspicious beginning. As the saying goes: I've suffered for my art; now it's your turn.
Narcotic Democracy
Fugitive curs of action,
evading sunshine,
dozing by dumpsters.
When the sneers appear
mocking activity,
we refuse to care.
This legacy of uncivil dialog
leads to dull and insensate
couchlock, an inability
to move, to speak, to envision.
Thus our dreams turn
nightmarish and creepy,
our hopes ashen and lifeless.
Broken by anger, listless
as voices tell and sell
frames, stories, fictions:
winners and losers only.
Unease and unrest
force sleep, insensate
to oligarchic pressure.
Lay the blame
and faint.
© 2011
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