A Failed State in Seven Acts (English Lyric Poetry)

Описание: A Failed State in Seven Acts (English Lyric Poetry)

————————


A Failed State in Seven Acts.


The spectacle is complete. The circus no longer employs clowns;
it has become one. A hollow pantomime where the ringmaster
applauds the crowd for its own degradation.
A question hangs, cheap and rhetorical, like a prop:
"Is it legal?" As if legality were a frontier
this operation still respects.


A man, a symptom. Not an anomaly, but a culmination.
You distilled your anxiety into a gilded avatar.
You did not elect a leader; you hired a caricature,
a funhouse mirror to reflect your own grandiosity and grievance.
He does not own you. You leased him your reflection.
Now you must live in the house his image built.


What was destroyed was not stone or statute,
but a shared grammar of reality. A nation is a story it tells itself.
You outsourced the narrative to a man whose only tense is the perpetual present,
whose only pronoun is "I," whose only adjective is "great."
He did not raze the temple; he simply declared himself its god,
and you brought the offerings.


Now the ghosts walk the corridors in daylight.
Ideologies you thought buried beneath European soil
find fertile compost in your own manicured lawns.
The foreign hand, once kept at bay by doctrine and dread,
now sketches policy on the Resolute Desk.
This is not infiltration. This is a merger.


The failure is pedagogical.
You were taught consumption, not citizenship;
brand loyalty, not critical thought.
You learned to vote as you shop: for the loudest label,
the simplest promise, the most satisfying id.
The enemy was never across an ocean or a border.
You elected him. You welcomed him home.


The darkest fantasy is not of monsters, but of banality.
Of ugliness disguised as privilege, of crime disguised as access.
The whispers are not of demons, but of men.
Men in rooms. Men with power. Men and their appetites.
The horror is not in its plausibility, but in the numb shrug
that greets it now—just another thread in the gaudy tapestry of decay.


Even the art is a casualty.
The attempt to frame the grotesque, to find a narrative arc,
falls flat. It is not satire, for satire requires a norm to deviate from.
It is merely documentation. A home movie for a house on fire.
The final salute is not an insult added, but a truth revealed.
You are not being conquered. You are performing your own surrender,
and the world has a front-row seat to the dull, slow motion of the end.

---
———————


#poetry #Music #spokenword #CreativeWriting#ArtisticExpression #englishpoetry
#IndieMusic #poésie #MusiqueIndie #Poesía #MúsicaIndie #poesiacatalana #MúsicaCatalana #deutschepoesie #IndieMusik #poesiaportuguesa #MúsicaIndie #MultilingualArt #CulturalExpression #GlobalPoets
#ableton #abletonlive #antitrumpprotest