Obsession and irrelevance and the terrible
noise, herded by ruminant guile, away from sorrows
that sting with familiarity. Countless aches, countless
fractured footsteps, tapping out a melancholic drag-heel-toe-stop.
And the
lurching and the
sneering and the
rip/jerk/quick/
spit/shut/fuck/
melancholic drag-heel-toe-stop-stop-stop.
Deny.
Acquiesce.
Illusory choices between martyrdom and satyr-sex,
societal collision between satire and context,
and everything else that was seemingly fucked
becomes firm and safe once again.
Still, to some it was never unsafe
and the crowd roars and the band plays
and the whole parade goes on - there's even punch.
Cuts on the hands and knees
of the image-obsessed are concealed,
become infected. Just chew the cud, smile,
and wait for the herd to die.