deluge

There's gonna be a deluge. With my ear pressed against the squawkbox in some newsroom bunker, some fire of bells and whistles rains down on my cochlea. Skating on thin ice, preamble before an avalanche, I hear that Snow White just bleaches her skin and the Fairy Godmother is nothing but a bullfrog on toadstool stunting disbelief and waving around her webbed feat along with that swell in her neck. Lazy eye day. Siegfried, cast me out, play me out. Magic wand filled with wishes and rabbits out of hats and little flags that pop out that read, "Bang!".  American consciousness. But these sheep do not dream. In their ignorance they cannot make out the myth. And why teach them if it ends in violence every time? This self-identity, this healing from a wound we cannot stitch, that has been bleeding out since some 17th century conquering decision. Those men are all dead and gone and here we are still with the needle and thread, crying and calling a medic, on some battlefield of ideology and fear. Snowman in the smoker comes out talking like Leonard Cohen. It's some claymation nightmare spoof. It plays on every channel. All 1000 of them. Country living for some peace and quiet. Kayaks over boats and oil your arms. Life-jacket silhouetted sunrise.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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