Wednesday, August 5, 2015

poem: Questions


The world weirds out.
Satirists are sorely pressed to parody the world
before the world parodies the satirist..

Blow holes in arctic tundra.
Now who would ever have thought of that!

Bolts hurled by angry gods?
Or a Methane Monster's unwinding coil?

(Beowulf and his dragon again)

Who are we?

To pretentiously claim our special place under the sun?
To plant our bloody cross
and call the land of butchered savages ours?

We won the race,
their land we've sown.
their land we've stolen,
their land we own.
Then why are we so scared?
Why is the night so long
and the sky so empty?
(In earlier times, I hear
the night was full of stars..)

                  Methane dragon coiled (but awakening) beneath the arctic sea and tundra?

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