Our poet-in-chief, I.G. Karfield, spits words like fire at the skeptics who refuse to revolt, the never-so-critical, the never-this-pitifully lyrical.
Our gratitude is great
Bless the celestial nonbelievers,
The skeptics who refuse to revolt;
Epileptically bounce to the beat of the
Marching drums of the violentless ones.
They refuse to believe humanity’s at stake,
See the risk they take is one
Beyond their rose gardens and shiny
And that their essence is too late.
They were never so critical,
Never this pitifully lyrical
When their wallets walked out on them,
Left them for dead;
When the politicians
Openly refuted their electoral missions;
When the suffering they suffered from
On their satellite emissions,
Meant an actual human being was hurt.
They refuse to cry,
Die, dry of thirst,
Cotton mouths open wide.
They still have plenty of water.
Now we can hear them in the distance
Behind tanks and water guns and billies -
Those rubber sticks that make
Protesting arms look silly -
Behind rubber bullets and blue
Shriveled dicks with mullets.
We can hear them roar from their armchairs,
Saying we only came here to party,
That there is a future,
And that we elected those parties.
We can hear them squeal from their bidets,
Saying we are responsible also kind of partly.
That there is room for improvement,
No need for fundamental transformation;
That revolution’s too darn gnarly.
We can hear them almost louder than
The cracking of our bones,
And we wonder from what planet they come -
They couldn’t be drones.
Their whining, as playful it had begun,
While the wailing of the masses a genuine one.
Still, we wonder from what planet they come.
And they make that humanity hones…