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Saturday, August 19, 2017

The Future is a Waylaid Load

Have you seen the reports of swift-boat pirates on the Mediterranean, of auriferous assassins in the highest levels of the government? They are the immoderate, immodest men. They are material men; pretending to be centrists, they rally round the flag of an immolated future.

The future is a waylaid load, misdirected, rerouted, packed and sorted, repacked, unpacked and still uncounted.

And oh how they exercise their power, they and the other nobles, drinking wine in smoking rooms, and smoking in their drinking parlors. They are conservative men, conspicuous, concupiscent men. Good men. They are the Optimates holding statues and status quo, property and privilege.

Their lawyers speak a private language, all code – no substance.

This is a form of madness and an undiagnosed lust for war. High stakes drunkenness. We live in a city without restraint, without censure, without disclosure. Rule number one: don’t mention the poor. There should be no curiosity, no discovery, no motion. Notorious.

The head spirals down, augers into the ground, while the pontifex maximus augurs an improbable future. The future has been delayed. The sacred mysteries will be obscured. The truth must not be spoken. Silence is a weapon.

We’ll bill the plebs for the research and charge them triple for the cure.

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Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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