Things are getting so sharp,
deplenished and unreplaced.
Regurgitated, swallowed whole,
then spit up again served new.
Broken crowns in black not gold are
still claiming in the name of the king.
A blockaded bishop is of little value
when the rooks have crumbled down.
Shutting off the logical part of the mind
to hear the sound of one hand clapping.
Riddles on bombs falling from flaming
birds on places people have never been.
Loser is such a harsh word, just say
the father of the boy who didn’t win.
Old high performance energy theft.
Pissing contests on vintage rugs too.
Plastic faces breed pretty lies in towers
above the peasants pleading for change.
James D. Casey IV is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana & Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his Muse, their goofy dog, and two black cats. Mr. Casey has authored four books of…
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