rhetoric & compost

Listen.
There isn't a man alive I'd rather trust
to see this through than oppose it. But you
know what? Me? I will not oppose it. Myself,
I'm willing to let nature take its course
correction and shove it up humanity's collective
as usual, as it always does how it always goes.

Peruse the manual. It's in there the past billion
years, give or take a few fingers or hooves, or

sure, toes.

This is part of why fools believe in God, you know. But oh,
tell me why, why do they fall in love?

My guess?

God. That's a surefire bet. God sets and has set
an infinite example in this regard, which
is perfectly good for him, but the rest of us not
being invulnerable everywhere at once,

tend to get
hit pretty hard.
It's politics, essentially. A great, big,
not very good in fact tiny little argument over
whose noble ends shall be stuffed with the means,
straight up the wazoo to compact, till it screams
shouting gaily, with capers and a tart lemon
drizzle, gone prancing in tandem-chained gangs
up the bizzle, press-ganged into grass-roots

stain removal crews. Protein gets out protein, y'all.

Whose game is up next?

WHOSE

Let us have this ball. Who let the dogs
drool?

This is pointless, depressingly jubilant,
shrewd, calculated in a last-minute least
-ditch afterschool special to an nth
of the latest common vulgar extent, rude
slurred, drunk speech

you could stand up and hate, singing boos

- was it booze? - get bent, as the same damn
top of the class pomps through, circumventing
again: bearing down with a lurch, you're crushed

under stone like mortar met pestle, to mush. Then
they jump up, spin around yet again, pick up
where they left baleful glares back then,
wrestle passles and pecks of free passes to go

fuck yourself, it's alright. Get yours
you know.