Purulent Throbs
Like the glow of star-dispelling lights rising,
saturating air
from 5th Ave
to Trump Towers,
to the Bronx,
atop the bridges glinting brazen shouts,
hooked-on-stuff-addiction poised as success,
remains the purulent throb of discharge,
woulda,
coulda,
shoulda.
Now,
like always,
decorative and furunculus wounds,
cover-ups
flung high over and through,
settling seasonally in Pennsylvania 2nd homes,
where farm animals
gaze from fields
at repeated history,
learned faux celebration,
attainment’s price.
So it goes.
Rising,
spreading,
oozing infected-dreams,
blistering from forever frictions.
the innate Id and ego,
the smooth and calloused reality,
reduced to screams and laughter.
Have and have not antecedents
surviving now as virus,
knowing not of antidote,
immunity prevention
long ago ignored for the sake of addiction.
“Why is that Mother?”
“Like the book you’re required to read.
See here the illustration,
barnyard animal-looking humans,
all dressed in party finery,
wondering what
to do now with humanity’s twisted ways.”
“Why are they wondering?”
“Mr. Orwell told the story long ago.
Other writers addressed it again a bit different,
but with the same warning… "Stop wondering. This is real.”
“Is that what they’re warning us about…reality?”
“Yes, dear.”
She caresses her teen-daughter’s forehead
“Some things take a long time to learn.”
“But we do learn them…right?”
“Sleep warm, daughter.”
Whether experienced nocturnally or on the subway, dreams of desired identity remain under siege by those who think dreams are escape, like they know better, not understanding that money habitually fails as the primary measure of success.
Are the cows and the faux farm happier? Are they ever butchered or kept as pets when they no longer provide milk for visitor delights and then thrown out as useless?
Once again, your thoughts are in the right place and many need to understand what you are really writing about. Sometimes I have a bit of trouble doing it… Forgive me.
Ron