It Is Little Wonder

It is little wonder — this ill wind.

We’re the largest exporter of young martyrs. They travel with confidence and exotic lawyers, falling into maggot defences, and jaunty tweeds in cooler weather. All so sanguine. Are you afraid?

A single empire in its crosshairs — colonial possessions and all else thanks to their regrets and embarkations on cancelled television series.

Touch yourself not … I’m kidding, touch yourself all you please, and go ahead place your hand on the hot burners and watch your skin slough off. 

Elsewhere, readers sing concatenations of the mining of rare earths and rejoining the arms race. Two right arms for your left, please. Either you colonize yourself or settle for an enema. 

Wit and worth are absent, and inspections are rare. Do you sniff the familiar trope of boy loses girl?

Social commentary need not apply. Violence will. Let’s chart the protagonist’s intellectual and moral emotion and touch nothing. Fall back or spring forward. See if anyone cares.

You randy chatwit, nitwit, godwit water wading sand flea. See if I care. 

Go ahead and snift your brandy and enforce your immigration law writ large. Wade into proofing wool and gather your navel gaze. 

Now you’re smart enough to be an American Prez.

What I’m Reading:

Since the world is ending, why not let the children touch the paintings?

— Ben Lerner / 10:04