Untitled by Dom Birch

The others were nothing to you, Judas.

Who tells us that your father’s palace is the epitome of regret.

But you have not heard the mercy songs of the tightened marionette,

And it was in his bath that you, poor infant,

First grasped the wires of control

And practised those synthetically sycophantic words, ready,

For the celebration of the controlling.

 

Do not promise change,

With a serial bigamist’s haribonic ring.

For the moment its wings are heard,

Beating submissive, stagnant air into a whirlwind

You will know the knights are alive.

 

And do not claim to know us,

In your fanatical golden coat

For the thief of souls,

Has nought in common with thieves of property.

 

We understand,

That temptatious apathy,

And the silken padded noose has made it so much easier

To see limp puppets dance.

 

Then;

How can we be angry?

When picking from the same box of poisoned chocolates,

Would we ever taste anything but malignant scotch?

 

Because even those tent indulgent socialists,

Endorsed by teenagers, fail to make the leap,

Into the breath of politician’s quiver.

Now tell me if revolution is aristocratic blood,

What definition is there for the sterile sewage that pollutes this fundamental river?