Smoking Mirrors

Dog Poet Transmitting…….

The Trumpathon continues. Now he wants to punch protesters in the face. He laments the days of old when this practice was in place. The irony here is that this practice never went away. Violence against people who are vocal about their oppositional perspective is still alive and well.

I keep waiting for the public to wake up, not only to the disparity between what politicians say and what politicians do but the whole Circus Cloaca Maxima. They are sitting on the banks of the River of Shit, feeding the rats that scamper about, with the processed food in their pockets and with themselves, once death has claimed them. In between their births and deaths comes the dream, poisoned by the redolent fumes of the coursing River of Shit. Flow on big river, flow on. Once cannot tell when night falls or day breaks in a place like that but there are moments and periods where the shine of romance glimmers off of the waters of The River of Shit, as if some hidden moon, as by osmosis penetrated the rebarred concrete ceiling of the cloaca with its light and brings an ambergris like luminescence to the surface of the clotted waters. It’s not butter or tofu that is the product of the churning waves. Portions of it ride up on the moss slick, tiny beach at their feet and are washed up beyond the lapping excrescence where they form feeding mounds for Lilliputians so disposed..

via Smoking Mirrors.


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