I will myself to write of a bureaucracy
that knots food pipes like neckties,
starving the horse to feed the pig,
whose snout has been dabbed generously with rouge
to celebrate its journey from sty to slaughterhouse.
I will myself to write of men of stature,
who stink of unbridled power,
reek of pseudo chastity,
and who faithfully drool lies
over the roofs of hungry farmers
and their pregnant wives.
I will myself to write of scandals in skyscrapers
where lamps glow fluorescent with infidelity.
Infidelity towards conscience,
(Capitalise if you must.
twitching my nose at exhibits
in the Grand Museum
of Failed Human Endeavor
(open from Mondays to Saturdays.
The seventh morning is for God
– capitalised, for your satisfaction)
distracts me from the anteroom reserved
for my signature brand of hypocrisy.
I am the one who starves the horse, knots food pipes into neckties, I dab rouge onto the snouts of pigs, lead them from their warm sties to warmer slaughterhouses, I stink of unbridled power, I reek of pseudo chastity, I drool lies over the roofs of hungry farmers, I inseminate their wives with untruths, I kick their whelps to the ground before they can even whimper, I scandalize the crowds, I scandalize my conscience, I scandalize god, to hell with upper cases, to hell with the sanctity of brotherhood, to hell with democracy, it is but a leper in denial.
Welcome to the Grand Museum of Failed Human Endeavour. I am the exhibit. I am your guide.
I am everyone who has ever
I am the infidel.
And so are you.