TV
I know them.
The hallow words, the fascist grin
gearing thoughts in one direction
They flash like shadows on the grave cave wall
It is a masquerade of layman’s terms
It is a fairy tale, of sorts
that grips the reader in a melted wax
of gouged eyes and hallow heads
And yet we don’t protest.
Flashing, gorged like fat worms
digesting curdled milk.
It will settle in our throats,
the after taste
that thin layer of “buy me” still lingers.
Consume, consume
and we follow suit.
