“—Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
--Charles Baudelaire, Au Lecteur
In war, the image graved upon the face of foes
Is long remembered, after he's been slain...
Or she, just think of Chechen widows at that show
In Russia: gas-rebuttals to their pain.
I know enough to know that Hitler liked to rant
And own a room with arms and twitchy hands.
The purse of shouting maws—the same as his I'll grant—
On television: fake-debates with canned
Positions; canned, synthetic talking points
Preserved in fat—in sweat that still anoints
Some man of God and nation—holy—though his eyes
Belie a hungering for flesh. His guise?
A cannibal ex-general who lies
To so-called country-kin
And never cops to spin.
Enemies: they always win.
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