New World Order

First draft

He looked down at me from an oily armchair �" broken in by second hand smoke.

He pulled his needle with an outstretched arm adding another bead �" another bead…

He tirelessly labeled card after card cataloging in vain for landfills.

He laments his past life with re-run memories.

He suggested my enlistment with manipulated disappointments.

He grew a haggard beard that dripped with the milk of ignored, tortured, and wasted cattle.

He grows a belly fat with regret and stewing with fallacies.

He extends his stumpy callused finger of nothing and points at everything.

He baptized me in the stopped river of plastic.

He worked through my weary and confused mother to dress me in His Sunday best.

Where was my Sunday best?

He casted me into the mould of the priesthood.

He pierced my soul with thick hooks of theology and politics.

He plucked me from the hills �" my roots still gushing with blood.

He painted my face with white artifice. 

He took the yellow kernels that I used to grow and turned them into plastic husks for more maize.

He over cooks the meat adding insult to massacre.

He builds invisible cages.

He bears a grin pulled back with assault rifles.

He bears a grin that stretches over nations.

He bears a grin that shows jagged metal screeching and halting.

He breathes thick black smog.

He feeds us myriad pellets made of “enough”; 

Soaked with the nectar of the forgotten gods amongst the field now covered with tar.

His favorite son is the one most broken

His favorite son is a fine work horse 

His favorite son has forgotten his dreams

His stepson is a wild mustang

His stepson sees the hot iron bars

His stepson isn’t afraid of the white heat

His stepson will die doing and not trying

His stepson will not be devoured

His stepson will save his mother from the belly of the beast that is

He.