Astounding
Rusted metal in moonlight, orange. Monkeys can't hold it,
So they even are not worth good graces.
But who, friend, is? Motorcycle men towing old ladies,
flipping off those they pass in hatred and self-satisfaction,
Scream to be mocked, for the pomp,
Their absurdity as Camus' absurdity. And today, Whitsunday, meaninglessly, the tarantulas at the pulpit, experts in raking in dough,
Grab our soulless hearts, tug the strings of their pulpits.
Bankers are select money-grubbers, Who get off when they overfee the poor, so they can float in heated pools.
Oil concens drain your pockets as you refuel:
You are playing their fool.
And the journey you prolong unto death
Is to make the rich richer;
But bless their bloated suicide rates,
As they sit transfixed by Fox News,
Empty-headed, lily-livered, drunk with deep pockets.
Out for the honor of no one,
Not themselves either,
Because there is direct pay
Dearly in coming
Birth, stillborn,
Conjoined at the pockets with empty holes.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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