Dystopia Now

image borrowed from thisiscolossal.com

Dystopia Now

“Hate looks like everybody else, until

it smiles.”--Tahereh Mafi.

It is so damn hard not to keck--

      (reeettcchh&rallphh) or visualize a wreck--

(screech--bam--splotch), contemp(silver)plating

a probable fascist malversation          within a jingo

                                                        oval (orifice),

                                               over blood(y) roses,

                                           without a garden or a

                                slender shred of hope;

all the while suffering from

       susurrous message overload

             bomBard-ing our census for 18

                   minutes of every media hour we partake.

             Never have we had to face such          

       an imbroglio, akin to a Korean          

battle axe lodged in Lady Liberty’s        

             bronze brain.                           For Christ’s sake,

                                                    even Dick Tracy would  

                                                 never have attempted to

                                   view BEN HUR on his wrist watch,    

                               and brave Buck Rogers might have

                        balked at riding in a driverless Uber Taxi,     

                  opting to utilize the manual override.                 

  

Yes, it still angers me that ten year old children have leg(ull)

ac(kk)cess(pool) to porn on public library computers, but

then obviously objectivity suffers paralysis when beautiful

breasts fill the screen, pious priests parlay for pernicious

pedephillia, demanding alter boy harems, while

                          

                          ISIS  dispatches hundreds of suicide

                          bombers to Mosul, whistling banzai ballads

                          & hatching kamikaze daydreams--

                                    where the zealous brainwashed

                                     disregard for life garrotes any 

                          thoughts of a future, a family, or any

                          kind of world where cerulean blue skies

                                      swarm with white doves--

                                  paralleling the terrible hope--

                               lessness prevalent in ethnic

                           youth incased in our inner cities,

                     who prefer gang fellowship to

                 formal education, handguns to

              hockey, & drug money to

           poverty.

Futurists re-read I, ROBOT, praying that imminent

sentient technology will not emulate TERMINATOR

projections, or the lethal MATRIX WARS, and I tell

you sadly that nuclear annihilation is absolutely still

a viable carcinogen hungry to inhabit humanity, and

I fear insane hands hovering over apocalyptic launch

codes and flashing blood-red buttons, while hoping to

grope more women, initiate ethnic cleansing, construct

concentration camps & generate genocide, revitalizing all

my childhood nightmares of atomic bombs, Russian

paratroopers & macabre alien anal probes.

Regardless, I still

soldier on, struggling toward the

light of peace and love.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB