exploiter wrangles his tweeds

see here thee arsehole of shambles
mesmerizing and haunting his possessives
paranoia flexing in bicentenary splendor
he’s mr. touchdown incandescence
from exertion to everyday lift-off

the crisp thrush of academic sentimentality
comforts his tweeds
elbow patches as cemetery of heroism
thee beautiful blighter of nationalist desaturation
homilies need not apply

his mastery complete
his lechery a comfort to him
his debtor deficiency and colored doubloons
on vitrine display at home
transfixed in his private room and immortal

What I’m Reading:

Abstraction and euphemism also protect us from having to look into the eyes of the victims. They are removed from our consciousness. They do not speak . . . Americans are never shown what it actually looks like when a US drone strike hits a wedding party, or a child is crushed by a US tank. They are rarely exposed to the accounts of those who have witnessed such gruesome spectacles, or to the voices of the family members who mourn the victims.

— Noam Chomsky / The Myth of American Idealism