Pint of Liberal Tears, Please, Barman
Pint of liberal tears, please, barman!
The endless circling droning sermon
from the slippery as a salmon
two-faced million-mouthed demon
with the head of a blood-drenched woman
that smears blood, breast-milk, piss and semen
goat-faced pentagrams across the walls to summon
Bohemian Grove’s fork-wielding doorman,
is silenced with a trump, trump, trump.
Those crisp, delicious, sweet, drought-quenching
tears are pumped out in mind-bunching
unison, in perfect harmony,
from those who’d like to teach the world
to whine, “Blond postmen are the planet’s enemy!
Moustaches are a tool of hegemony!
Agree with us or you’re a soiled,
pooey misogynist who hates black people!”
Those moreish tears have bubbled and squealed
from faces you never could tire of punching,
from every intellectual cripple
preaching in the progressive chapel,
insisting that tweaking the Russian bear’s nipple
again and again and again and launching
into a third world war, is a minuscule ripple
on the moral lake compared with pinching
a woman’s fat rump.
Today they swing in a sweet, sweet lynching
to the blare of a trump, trump, trump.
Sixteen years before the millennium
the serpent would fatten, our prophet bugled,
his hope for the future disrobed and bedraggled,
and identical thoughts would slouch through each cranium.
Peak oleaginous unction-dripping
howling in a monochrome timbre
into a rainbow-painted echo chamber.
In fact, it slunk up, that slithering mamba,
then seized us while we lounged in slumber,
sixteen years after.
It came to dismember,
it sank its fangs and thrashed and wriggled,
we coughed up blood, we gasped and gurgled,
then sliced off its head, waving goodbye to the circus
with a trumpety trump, trump trump trump.
Now we must drag ourselves up and clamber
into a dawn of new consciousness, out of the darkness,
waving goodbye to the flying cucumber,
the overstirred borscht, the mushroom lamp.
© Archie Macjoyce