In an Age of Tired Truth

As camouflage a crafted style amounts to politics

Ideolog smithys all the while

Hammer-on, turning ploughshares into vicious steels

Fettling up such salacious stuffs to kill with; under principle;

Deeply thereunder unhandsome lies their currency of skill

 

Broadside bespoilers orgify indictments, undertaking deft

Redactions that bend their centrefolds’ real-time sincerity,

Image projectors draw up goodly rulers, public schoolers

Of morals;

Who truth-tell miscellaneous models of conviction,

 

Convicting at once wholesale and absolute a population,

Unfamiliar with

The sweet conversants hid in idyll lyric ideologies;

Fodders whose sufferings speak of power-grabs in sighs

A shade indifferent, yet all the more the assured,

Entirely.

 

Be ye beware the honours laid on scrining heads of state

Endowed by self to self for self-same-self’s own sake,

Insignias they drape over scarred eviscerated landscapes

On moons where dress-up lookalikes play Tammerlaine

 

Buck Mulligan big words to salet, dress, their gutted meats

The heaps of broken bodies, litter caracassing the streets

Served up, and seasoned; cooked on prejudices

Sophisticats admire; a spread of equal comfortable ease

Finds tolerable digestion,

 

Rummage-bag war-words pirouette, proliferate self-defence

Tracing a delicate lilting lift, then unctuous genuflection

Their grateful arms uptake the fashionistas at high-tea

Self-referenced by their grievance

 

Their works only uneasy worn when lone before bare ghosts,

Raised-up on favours buttonholing the bigger ballot box,

When willingly to blow and bend, main chance any cost,

For any loss projected on the residues of time

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