Lords Of The Flies Poem by B. R. Dionysius

This year was all memorial.

Wreaths belted every newscast

& PM’s wrote to hoi polloi

c/- the dead letter office.

Dogma, the killing jar

of young culturalists bathed

prime time in cotton wool;

political spirit evaporated

in Kashmir, Chechnya, Bali.

Reason’s abdomen skewered

by a box cutter. Remote trigger

thought. Nerves ran out of text

message. In theatres real drama

played for the first time in years

& states worshipped pig’s heads.

Lords of the Flies who thought

they drove history forward, only

ripped the back of its shirt.

The cheap fabric made locally

(from imports!): hemp outcasts

wishing world events had taken

a different turn. Vanquished fads

eager for a new season’s catalogue.

The hydrogen car garaged at Bethany.

Tesla grounded by the mainstream press.

The jet engine thankful for its chance.

The A-bomb still mystified

by its simple duet.