Monday, March 13, 2017

Fascist Funk, as dictated to the poet (Day 54)

Heavy, sweet as sweat, smoke 
hangs, a shroud,
a cloud of doubt that gets in 
your eyes and makes them tear,
dissolving the regret 
of millions of voters 
whose debt will be 
paid in lives and in 
detention centers. 
I don't worry, too few of them 
to mention—gonna be great!—
not that it ever 
enters my mind. 
You see, me and my kind 
we're not weak, we 
revel in our money, and 
despise the drab and meek
even in our homes
dictator chic, some editor 
once called it. What? I like red 
walls and velvet, and 
polished gilded laminate, 
in which I can admire my pouf
—See? I've got a sense of humor!
This flowing mane is proof 
that I'm still young and growing 
younger by the day. I'd say 
there's few more virile than I, 
though I wouldn't say I'm vain, 
just well-adjusted. 
Success and power, 
smoke and mirrors, 
it doesn't matter how I got here— 
I deserve it! And you love it, 
even when you 
say no, 
especially when you say 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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