Democracy Dies by Suicide
Democracy dies by suicide,
Not in darkness or despair!
But at the sounding of the trumpets
Strewn with pomp and flair.
It marches right up to that golden altar,
A gait turns to a prance upon the steps.
It’s tickled as its inhibitions falter —
Orgiastic anticipation just before a
Sanguine mess!
Ah, it seizes firm that dapper dagger
And plunges deep into a stately heart,
Sending fast a simple mandate
For its spirit to depart.
The marinated meat is quick to spoil,
So it’s handed out to please the crowd
And alleviate some earthly toils.
Some parts still might be tough to chew
But at last the glory of the day
Belongs to you,
And you,
And you.
A captain’s best
Upside the bow a roarer broke
The windward wave did stave the stroke
Shuddered cross the hardest folk
And loosed each cannon free.
The lurch had swept some men below
And stressed to taught the raft and rope
But pilfered most the Deckhand’s hope
To save the blokes at sea.
“Save it boy, the rage you feel
Turn your strife to stern and steel
Guard your step, now take the wheel”
The captain boomed to he.
A cannon lodged the sailor’s chest
And soon would come eternal rest
But he last recited a captain’s best
To turn the tide of misery:
When all is once
And once is done,
I’ll set out on
A setting sun.
Ahead the glint
Of crested waves,
Behind the cause
Of Death invades.
Ahead the churn
Of strident seas,
Behind stand still
The deathly trees.
The captain then fell closed his eyes
Unmoored at last without reprise
His final words relit the skies
And cooled the quaking sea.
The Deckhand’s grip was at the helm,
A novice made in a master’s realm.
Adorned now in steely brave,
Tempered by the mast and the grave.
Five O’clock
A sigh affixed her notion of the afternoon. The drab green walls, the desk preoccupied with loose papers, the light sifting lazily through curtains of faded white—all of it was awfully boring. The lumpy chair beneath her was more melted marshmallow than cushion, and her back ached from the lack of lumbar support. The only things moving were the hands of the clock running circles around each other. They were slow to get to five o’clock, when she could race home for a meal and a smoke, but they’d make it. Clock hands were reliable like that, always right on time.
Words were spoken by that funny little lady across the coffee table. Tick. The woman had such silly problems. Tock. The husband wasn’t interested in her anymore. Five. She should have left the drunk years ago. O’clock.
The session ended, and her time belonged to no one.