Wednesday April 11, 2018

Urged rumble at cochlear dawn:

A multi-headed virtual army

wielding Pitchfork, chanting atop a backbeat.

“Doggone criminals,” mutters the Demiurge,

the Injustice League foil to Shelley’s

bull goose legislator

burrowed, honeycombed

in the undercommons of a lax bro

cosmos.

Of your “Many”

your Class Struggle Avatars

your Elected Representatives

here at the Nancy Reagan psychic hotline

(“This call may be monitored—

please wait, please hold”)

with whom do you wish to speak?

 

With those who are

as from the heads of gods

approaching perihelion

and who are thus

in all the senses to which consciousness has been as yet made to refer

woke.

 

Since we came to get down,

and since we are as gods,

As Brand says,

we might as well get good at it.

So, in place of what is:

joined with those who have been at these tasks all along

we must build it, conjure it—at the very least, dream it—here, now,

hidden from the sense of those who rule,

the utopia in which none may act as master.

 

 

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