A rifle shouts from a nearby rooftop.
Bullets balance legs on swift backs,
moving toward reddened and
sweaty faces. Hostile energy cheers.
“American politics exhale a strange
stench,” she says. “We got front
row tickets to a highly developed
circus, the freak show,” he says,
tossing roasted peanuts into his
mouth, anticipating clowns and
slow-witted elephants. Stubborn
donkeys hang in the cut, making
promises, talking that silly non-
sense, arming tax dollars, screaming
about unity, tattooing names on
better bombs, calling it progress.
The world keeps spinning, leaking
death, standing on the devil’s
red-hot shoulders. Somewhere
Zack de la Rocha screams into
a microphone. American Carnage
hustles, tap-dancing on open seas,
eager to boogie on blood-soaked
soil, and turn up for other colonial
empires. “Nobody wants infected
apple pies anymore,” he says. Loud
pops enter a polluted Climate.
Pop, pop, pop! Media outlets howl,
bow to a violent language. “Can’t
really tell the difference between
words and bullets,” she says. “Yea…”
He says, “them trickle-down blues
are dangerous.”
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