Tikrit, Imagined
And never to acknowledge exactly whatβs being said:
such is our task.
Takes place in Sofitel
<ββ-
- EYES TURN TOWARDS WINDOW, WISTFUL -
(The television whispers a rerun parade,
a far off storm siren,
the smell of Tikrit, imagined.)
- EYES DOWN AGAIN, SADLY -
<ββ-
So beyond fucked as to become completely
meaningless.
The piper remains unpaid,
the air is filled with platitudes.
βYou canβt beat to a pulp what is
already pulp-like.β
Each day we shake the velvet hand1
and shower down our mouths
in ritual,
In ritual, you cry:
βIn ritual!
Now get me Starbucks Grande!β
(and watch out for the Noid.)
1Time