Poem #43




Off of Dead Peasants;

dead peasants, dead peasants?

It’s got to be an in-joke

(But you haven’t got an in);


Why is the blanket worshipping the pin?

You should feel like 50 felt

When he penned Many Men,

‘Cause if the gamble’s on your life

Then the bettors crave a win.


This should make Shelley’s watery

Corpse grab a pen again,

This should make Godwin’s

Corpse grab a pen again:

Ex-employees of the Pentagon

Earning top buck to study your past

(And don’t imagine for a second that you’ve covered your ass),

They’ll dust off that nude, needle, slur,

That you’d kept, tucked away, in the

Depths of your purse.

So now all you’ve got is this NDA

(Sign, and it’ll all go away)

Which keeps Harvey, quite legally, in play.


Yet that’s just the important ones.

You’ve heard the expression

I’m not a name, I’m a number.


You’re a number in a number,

A statistic,

And Cambridge Analytica

Have plotted your loves,

your meals, your inward laugh,

your clandestine perversions

On a scatter graph.


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