COP 126

by P. Murgatroyd, UK.

A Belsen-thin spectre
in a wrecked Lexus,
towed whole inches along
through the keening dust
by four horsemen.
This is the last human 
on the last day,
the day of rage.

To him who sits on the red horse
it was granted
to take truth from the earth. 
He is Rhetoric,
brown-mouthed and viper-tongued,
son of strut and spin,
emitting a smog of success,
‘making significant strides’
(while still in the saddle).

He who sits on the coal-black horse
holds an extinct Visa Gold
in his tight-fisted, Rolex-wristed hand,
and his name is Greed.
Behold his cloven hooves,
kicking a rusty Coke can far ahead,
the billowing privateer belly,
his ravenous Fenrir fangs
and slavering lips
which have sucked off their last oil well.

Stupidity,
criminal, terminal Stupidity,
on a pale pantomime horse
with no-one inside,
dribbles and drools and drivels,
‘Duh, it’s not dat bad really,’
as the sky catches fire.

Self-interest
admires himself
in the wing-mirror
on his hamstrung donkey,
pictures to himself
his re-election
(with a massive majority of corpses) 
and carries on pleasuring himself,
in a wank without end
for ever and ever
amen.

As they look down
on the cremated earth,
unquenchable laughter
arises among the blessed gods.

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