This report starts at the big blue end of the spectrum:
Afghanistan, Iraq, held low under the high water of 1492,
By an oversized 227 year old man of war.
A down swinging empire of rising fear, meets its boomerang,
With the lies told abroad only believed at home.
Choreographed leadership to reconcile the world to American supremacy.
Fist bumps of hope capture celebration, news of massacred wedding guests escapes indignation.
Empire’s hypocrite calls out: “People of the world, look to” – Abu Ghraib (?)
Boasting democracy with Guantánamo, that shit stain of torture on Cuba‘s indigenous territory.
Looking over butt pyramids of Freedom, refusing to name the obscenity for what it is,
As minute men torture truth from the mouths of babes in tribute to the
Founding Fathers‘ waterboards of liberty.
As a Winter Soldier’s tattoo boasts of foreign adventure.
Überanthropological terrain, better targeting for a global kill chain:
Cluster bombs of liberation unleash a fury of fantasy on a cocktail napkin.
A rendezvous of fear and opportunity calls for lipstick and pearls,
They spray on Eau de la mort for their private function,
Racing to the doctrinal command’s members club,
The “SS” party crew bears a gift of plagiarized information.
Pepsi shows up in the trash, is danger at hand?
Luckily Abu Muqawama stands guard outside,
As Amatu Al-Muntaqim creeps nearer from surrounding jihad fields.
Toward fortunate, harmonious, stable, traveled,
Something tepid this way ambles:
Middling middleman strolling the middle road from Middlebury where he middle manages
Cosmopolitan common grounds in a senior common room.
While the middlebrow irony man poses for an ad for a war on terror,
Counter-hope of continuity masked by vain audacity,
Tiptoeing on eggshells with a 50 caliber machine gun on his back.
Shifting to the centre, seeking a middle ground, avoiding vengeful anger.
Besides…what about Zimbabwe? And what about Sudan?
We are Nobel imperialists, not uncompromising by paying no regard to the sentiments of Others.
Yellow, aging deceit
G-8 jabbering jowls ceaselessly chattering hegemonic gibberish.
The nobel‘s privileged view from the centre of the world.
True monsters fondly fondling their shriveled pedagogy,
Under silk hotel sheets hiding
That Naipaulian civilized Eurocentric eroticism
That “hates black men, but loves black cunt.”
“Africans need to be kicked – that’s the only thing they understand.”
Ending dead on the dread of red
Out of the night, J’ouvert’s red awakening.
Recreating a ’68 convention will see unconventional action.
As a monkey, left speechless by all the deathpower, promises to smash heaven,
As the long awaited chickens come home to roost,
As unbearable rage ensures that some will push back.
As it will be, because He Promised the Fire Next Time.