John Sensele

Gold Star - 46,153 Points (12.09.1953 / Ndola, Zambia)

Imitations That Went Awry - Poem by John Sensele

I lash out at the incompetence
Society in its soul feels
Cringing, cowering at the impotence
Etiquette wills and deals
When for a few pieces of silver
Hoodlums in suburbs
Sell their soul to pour blood in the crimson river
Frothing occult herbs
Muggers kill for their perverted pockets to flood
With mutant money
They brandish in tinted cars
Where malevolence and indolence they conceal
In the small hours at boisterous bars
Drudgery deals they seal
To soporify the right
Who scrutinizes the weird wealth
They immerse in the fatal fright
They pour on the nation
Lumbered with the ambiguity
Of synchretism and the veneration
Of the dark divinity alongside its gratuity
Nourished in secluded saloons
Away from the public page
Where wizards and witches in their balloons
Fly on broomsticks of rage whose wage
Demands sacrificing innocent interests
Without batting a lid
Adhering strictly to rules
Masterminds impose to mislead
Spineless bloodsuckers hunting for dirty dough
Dreaming about driving Japanese jalopies
Rescued from Osaka and Hiroshima at a show
Where jalopy cemeteries in spite of pleas
Frown on the return to normalcy
Rejecting normal life
Opting for obduracy
And its attendant strife
When one location after another
Reports gassing
Neighbours mistrusting each other
Resorting to fussing
Burning to ashes
A punk they catch with chemicals in a rucksack
Sprinkling petrol on eyelashes
Gazing askance at the sack
Reduced to cinder
Emotions flying loose
Feelings frothing to surrender
Fervent freedom
For the sake of extravagance slavery
That thrives in the thiefdom
Bereft of bravery
Quaking on the back of faith
Worshipping idols
Copying foreign cultures
Scoring own goals
Vaunting vultures and vapid vouchers
Imitating burial rites
Christening processes
Witchcraft bites
Kitchen party abcesses and excesses
Leading muses to comment
‘What do you expect? '
Imitators would for themselves foment
Troubles in doubles like the imbecile insect
Knowing not whether they move forward
To worship the Devil
Or promote motes and notes of the laggard
Who unleashes in their bedrooms a plethora of evil.

Topic(s) of this poem: poems

Form: Free Verse


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Poem Submitted: Monday, February 17, 2020



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