In the Big Red Desert of Political Slavery

Nicholas McKay

The mediocrity of society
has reached a triple figure percentage,
and for those of us who have been
sleepwalking through life,
the darkness has become
all but impenetrable
the moment we wake up.
Beyond the belief of intellect’s scope,
the damages wrought upon
the social mainframe
have reduced what was once
proud and boastful,
to the rubble we call our home;
buildings built on the layers
of lies, writ my masochistic villainy.
The honourable leadership
of past structures has succumb
to temptation and duress,
the seductive touch of sinful economics,
and the antagonistic pull
of corruption turning our nation
into ash, until it is incapable
of recognition. The directionality
and scope of life’s shit overture
prohibits the existence of beauty,
as blossoming futility causes all
to surrender beneath the reign
of inevitable slavery,
for that is all we ever are.
We pay; we eat; we fuck; we sleep,
but all the while underneath the gaze
of governmental employees,
whose expertise in stock management
ensures we never exhibit
too much fun. With this thought
penned upon the page, is leniency
from political threat
really too much to ask,
or are we doomed to suffer
as submissive tools of oppressive bodies
until our life force wanes
and our money runs dry like the desert?