Friends watched a sitcom where my imaginary corpse
Bleeds in the metal machine called the Bataclan:
A kicking and spitting frenzy begins, for they’d heard
On social media I’d said something racist.
I did - “I care about my civilization,” I proclaimed, as
A thirsty bullet dove into a preconceived pool of my blood
Pocket erasers withdrawn, smartphones laden with
Cognitive powers of a million or more for Zuckerburg’s Dol Guldur,
A horde of gracious ’friends’ rubbed my face raw with fervor
From the kindness of their cells they made a funeral mask
Of raw flesh; no more Jehovah could not be seen in my image:
They knew a DNA test would never succeed this time around
From kindness comes killing, from gore satisfaction
But I have seen the empty human heart at palantir proximity:
Ripped down the Oz curtain, ‘friend’ printed on cheap hotel towel cloth
Expel me from your martial jubilation at ninety-three Muscovites who never harmed you;
Let me watch a few wheels, breathe the wisps of Slavdom’s ghosts in peace
Zygmunt’s vision has arrived: all of Rus is drowning in the same Potemkin ship
The eraser, not the gun, is the real weapon of our Undivine Comedy
Pancras has ordered erasers for everyone: no longer have we the right to possess
Our last souvenir from Eden, the only token grace the flaming-sworded angel allowed;
OneState hasn’t arrived: but OneOpinion is refined from the finest plastic steel
OneOpinion decreed the Slavs must die: at NATO’s hand, ISIS’ hand, Putin’s hand
”The end comes soon…we hear drums in the deep…we cannot get out…they are coming…”1
For the ninety-three dead in Moscow; but not at the expense of those whose blood turns the Dnieper red
From The Book of Mazarbul: The Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien
A powerful poem. I'm especially struck by the line: "The eraser, not the gun, is the real weapon of our Undivine Comedy". How true.