Showing posts with label georgia lisette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label georgia lisette. Show all posts

Tired

I’m tired.
I’m tired of hearing lies.
Refutations, clarifications, retractions and denials.
The rules of sophistry are easily learned
abuses of guided perception are Pulitzers earned.
As a self confessed sapiosexual
I find this twisted corruption of the intellectual
leaves me cold.
Shoulders hunched against the hurricane of unsure states,
of choices between hate and hate,
of divisiveness inevitable
among a population overwrought in apathy.
They didn’t seem to care about Operation Yewtree.
There is no outcry at the end of democracy.
The more salient among you will say
“But Georgia, It was always an illusion!”
Your silent acceptance betrays deafening collusion.
If populism is the enemy
we are elevating the judiciary
above the will of mass humanity
instead of innovating with prudency
and making the paradigm work for everybody.
Name-calling and
hundred-and-forty character sound-bites
have reduced debate
to bar-room fights.
One sneers
and the other reaches for a pool cue.
And it’s you, yes you
trafficking in this nonsense.
Demonizing both sides
occupying the mock-moral high ground peace-pretence.
The military complex is undeniable maths.
This crossroad of history only leads to mine-filled paths.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of insincerity dressed in emojis.
Of public mourning for countries
we didn’t want to bomb in the first place,
of choices between hate and hate.
I’m tired.
End time prophesies seem inaccurate.
They missed the flood of inverted facts
or turgid turmoil, social inertia,
interventions in justices by various churches.
Don’t we all want to live?
To have enough to survive and to give?
To be happy and share,
to give thanks and give care
to the weak?
The goals we seek are the same.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of seeing the same mistakes
the same choices between hate and hate
peddled as the only options.
Where has the future gone?
Huxley, Dick, Burgess and Brooker
Tellers, time-travellers, prophets and spooks are
following the echoes into the chamber.
Amplifying, demystifying, warning of the dangers.
I’ve come to value them more than the news
as shreds of my repaired fraying faith come unglued.
And differences between the actual and the absurd
become blurred.
I’m tired.

Romero


Romero was a romantic.
Voluntary Zombification
wasn’t included in his epic.
Nor was informational monetisation .

We are the mumbling, stumbling masses.
We’re the brain dead, GM fed, disposable classes.
Deafened by the rumbling malice used to reassure us.
It’s the somnambulists’ sonorous psalm-like chorus:

It’s their fault – COMPLY
It’s their fault – OBEY
It’s their fault – ACCEPT

Above us holographic promises projected
onto roiling clouds of discontent
seem concrete.

Below, the mire sucks to ankles, feet
rotting in perpetual effluent, deep
and cloying as corruption is cheap.

Malaise molests our mucous membranes,
remaining even after exhaling this weighty air.

With fuzzy focus, our brows furrowed
we attempt to see clearly in ever-long shadows:
the projections.

Mirages of meaning
heinously inspiring  false hope
through eye burning vapours  
and looking glass lies.
Fingers outstretched we strive
to grasp
then gasp
surprised
when hands pass
through
banisters on stairs
that were never really there
at all.

We fall
for this repeatedly,
our gullibility
rivaled only by the virility
of our envy.
Gaudy baubles.
Tawdry tell-alls.
Scandals based on media morals.
Distract, deny
debase, decry,
berate, then buy
into this
mis-in-
formation.
Visions of similar vexatious veracity
we are force-fed emphatically
until this aspirational claptrap
is snapped up
by strapped up
facsimiles of fashionable pretence.

(In their defence,
all face paint is war paint
and all clothing is fancy dress.)

And yes, I too
am subsumed
by this murky world.
Cursing at cloud forms
coughing at coarse fumes
finding comfort in costume.

Is this
security?
The Mafia style Protectorate
we live under with Protocol Three?
The perverted version of protection
offered by the Panopticon
promotes
extreme proposals
perfect
for pitting us
one on one
and on and on
we go ‘til we turn on
ourselves.

Belly-flames long gone cold,
we’re dejected, cut price, wholly sold.
Raised on debt and dreams of gold,
forget ever owning anything.
Political correctness causes steroid- thin skins
to equal the pages of the books we binned
and burnt
never having learnt
to critically think
our way out
of the mess we’re in.
Overused superlative responses
out-stretch soaked and underrated nuances
to polarization purpose.
Once we are accustomed to unreason at this rate
 we lose our slippy grip on the power of debate.
Reduced to frothing opinions,
forthright remonstrations
forceful demonstrations
and farcical deliberations
over arbitrary -isms and -ists.

“No I’m sorry, you must choose from this list
of things we have determined are suitable for you.”

When the decision is between
 being thrown to the hounds,
or buried under the ground,
still breathing
it’s no wonder folk are
keeping their heads down,
silencing dissenting sounds,
numbing their sense of feeling.

With enough bodies under the mire
the heap might just be high enough
to lift us up beyond this stuff.
That’s the logic, right?
Except that fetid foundations
build putrid palaces
and subsidence is simply
impossible to fight.
Sooner or later we are all sucked under,
fucked over
by a state that places emphasis
on cronyism and nepotists.

What makes you think you can win?
It’s not a case of sink or swim.
We need to invert the way we think
to even have a chance.

They aren’t world leaders,
they are world servants
And the sooner we remind them

the sooner we end this macabre dance.

Annie Ziyah Attacks



Annie Ziyah would drink tea
but wrings her hands incessantly.
Hunched and bunched and bundled in her cardigan
she is the plague of panicked whispers behind pleasant conversation.
She is “what if?”; “what then?”; “this could go wrong!”
She is the worst conclusion jumped to
with a wheedle extra strong.
Eyebrows arcing over horn-rimmed lenses
Salt and pepper ‘do resembling avian garden fences
This sorceress of scandal wields her spells with devastating zeal:
Raising pulses, stealing breath,
 clothing stained by seeping sweat,
memories wiped, voices silenced
over-ridden by ‘boom-boom-boom’.
her gristly grip gets hold.
You feel the suffocating room
close in around you and as the blackness swells-

you’re overwhelmed

Annie Ziyah sips her tea,
dips eyebrows momentarily
then raises them, a new disaster hatched.


She’s ready to fight the next match.