B. R. Dionysius
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.
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