Walkin on Air

ISIL Ponderings

‘No such thing as glittering gold', said he,
‘gold is dull and heavy like my wife
or maybe a low watt bulb one can see,
as were it a nearly blind tooting his fife
heading the drum-section in the wrong direction!'

Belching and breaking wind indiscriminately
speculators hope for a soon to come windfall,
not giving a fiddler's screech if it's done criminally
perhaps encouraging honesty to go AWOL;
while they muster the gang for daily inspection.

In the meantime, distraught parents bury children
discarded as rotten leftovers from a banquet
hosted in honour of wickedness and fiction:
decapitated heads not collected in a basket
in lieu of it being Jihad and not French Connection.

Terror's hopscotch grid draws results
unimagined in my own childhood reality:
fear is the name of the incessant tumult
devised to intrude our bathetic banality;
the Devil's sour-sweet Endtime confection.

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ISIL Ponderings

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