Iconoclasts
have come, at last
to save us from this drudgery.
This too-easy, this clear to see
hegemony.
But icons as they are say what
They want and not
the truths we seek;
brutally bleak, more earnest than just
freakishly banal.
Their hype and zeitgeist distort the swarm
redefine the form of normality.
Crudely mis-marketing misogyny and misandry
as pride.
Another cardboard enemy
a Goldstein drawn among us to deride.
A different one allows themselves to be
unformed; unsure; walks clumsily.
This unvarnished personality
without polished paid publicity is kept
as curiosity, held up as sideline eccentric
to reject
at will.
And they will.
Using nebulous concepts like
Standards, or
Breeding, or
Culture
as excuses to slaughter to the screeching of vultures
or whatever altar serves best the purpose being pushed.
And the person being crushed by such faltering disservice
does not stop being a person when you’re hungry for their
blush.
Objects made of people will ultimately fail.
“Neither use nor ornament”; it’s the old wives’ sliding
scale.
Old wives, old knives, old scores to settle.
Metal measures mettle but the meter always morphs.
Intangible out-fluences – diluting stimulations
Reactionary conflation of the story you would tell
Intrinsic expectation of how disgracefully you fell
from the pedestal they put you on, the one you didn’t
build.
It grew beneath your feet in the instant you stood still.
Starlet in the spotlights, frozen, blind, wide-eyed.
Demanding penance for your daring to have a private life.
Sordid little details now publicly discussed.
Using terms like “unladylike” and “ashamed” and “disgust”.
Hold your head up high, dear; fear is something they’ve
not earned.
Their weak attempt to dampen your flame that brightly burns
Is just a pissing contest. You’re treading on their toes.
The days of rule by bully-force are coming to a close.
