Ill: Transcendental Blues, A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere
Hey there big government,
may I maybe laugh at this?
Or are my giggle-qoutas spent
on serpentine hatespeech-hiss
emanating from my every pore
and sweating from my golden
mucous-laden cis-het core;
thrice cursed and beholden
to your standard deviation
of rapturous and torturous
flaccid curious domination
of the vaporous and glorious
equality of constipation
as laid forth by erroneous
drunk and pseudo-metaphysical
intellectual part-time stimulus
who deadpanned, drugged, hysterical
tends towards incompetence?
Good morning dear, big brother, sir,
may I mayhaps maybe speak,
or are my dual testies such a blur
that you much prefer «protect the weak»
to anything which I alone declare
about this sudden state of woe
which you through tyranny prepare,
for us to pack and buckle up and go
somewhere you vaguelly labelled «new»
where faces through barbed wire grin,
then through incessant howls accrue
dubious layers of trans-generational sin
along paternal bloodlines old and mean,
or deemed as such from vantagepoints
whose decadent and pampered spleen
would see old and tired rheumatic joints
removed for progress and progress alone?
Good evening, Xister, gracious Xir
whose numerous labels illuminate transparencies;
neither noxious he nor saintlike her
to grace the present with abundant inconsistencies –
may I please receive my license to laugh;
my bi-monthly allowance of moderate giggling?
Or is it maybe justice served to split in half
the radical notion of humour making wriggling
forms and shapes of those of lesser worth than you?
Is it maybe so that neither his or hers should
transcend obstacles indifferent to your woo;
or ascend through laughter troubles which could
break the minds of those who, weak of will,
would never fathom liberty through comedy?
Those who traverse hardships extreme, and still
find the strength to laugh at statesanctioned travesty?
Woe unto you, drooling mad and moonfaced mob
of justice served through thoughtless crime;
a viscious cancerous infected blob,
a product of our superficial callous time
whose endless never-thinking rage
seeks offense where no offense is done;
whose imbecilic nonsense-plees encage
freeform-thoughts to make sure none
would ever find the courage to engage.
Whose cancer spreads through hate,
through vile and vicious mob-rule bullying
to make sure none would ever create
a movement clear and concise in defying
your lung-puncturing screech of incompetence
flowing on wafts of air in monosyllabic drools
brought on by dumbstruck identitarian decadence.
Good evening identitarian identity crisis,
vague and venomous and vile!
Could your suburbanite pawnshop ISIS
allow me my speech for a while,
or would it upset these fragrant gardens
of your comfortable middleclass;
these delicate withered petals of your wardens
who trapped you in this personhood of glass?
Would it threaten your victim-narrative
were I to raise my cis-het voice regarding
your pettiness; to say it is comparative
to sheltered prepubescent children guarding
their mudcakes in their sandbox-paradise?
Oh, would we then see your castles crumble
bit by bit and piece by piece
or hear your vacuum-voices mumble
something-something war is peace?