Still I Lie by Molly Beale

I am not a silent poet

Rise? Rise. Dust of America,

The dream.
…………………. Hope.
Empty talk is over; for under
some lacklustre God have shoulders
dropped, factories rust shuttered
how our bible gives Babylon
God’s middle finger and
apple pie-….too much
noise from bodies thigh high
diamond glinting, righteously
broken, the way I like to see;

We must speak our minds openly.
(A person who is flat-chested is very hard to be a 10)
No more bitter, twisted lies. These
fleshed teardrops scattered like tombstones, my
people in the very dirt
like air – their different reality.    Fluxed poverties,
cash flushed excite this daybreak that’s wondrously clear.
greasy dimes,  a dollar welling swelling rise rise rise,
one dropping heavy as a nation made of flies.
Robbing so much potential…

Face challenges,
get the job done.   Merely
an orderly and peaceful power transfer.  Why are
you besest with gloom?    It’s just

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