Political Poem

RIP Jen Moore

The earth is ruled by Titans, who maul and eat the children.

We call ourselves guerillas, who’ll win this war somehow

By staying alive, despite the countless ways they have to kill us.

Everyone is an enemy, everyone. Every channel of public

Communication exists to promote the dismemberment of infants

As the highest embodiment of being human. If, like us,

You disagree, you are shunned, if lucky, or snuffed out, if

Luckier still, or, more likely, dragged through shame parades

Where the entire planet gets to taunt you, even the priests

And rabbis, ministers and imans, who’ll take a break from raping

And sacrificing little boys and girls to say we will go to hell

If we don’t believe their word is God’s. All our friends and families

Have long since turned their backs on us, we are not welcome

At schools, workplaces, restaurants, coffee shops, if we ask, as we 

Must, how many missing children’s bones were found inside the 

Tunnels between the party rooms that honeycomb the cities,

Rescued into slavery by CPS, or bought by the Red Cross, 

The tax-free foundations and the charities that play for pay 

Upon our last human sympathies. Our neighbors may try, out of 

Kindness, to correct us, and say the world is ruled by Satan, 

Haven’t we heard? It’s quite allowed to saw off the face of a girl 

And show it to her as if it’s your own. That's the least, if you want

To be great, that’s expected of you; have you ever even drank

The urine of a rotisseried baby or did you just enjoy the meat?

The blood, the blood, we say, the martyrs most pure and innocent, 

Then the laughter that we are insane, not worthy of community,

A danger that must be medicated with heavy metals, pacified 

With fluoride, watched by the eyes we can't see. We're taken

To therapists, who ask us to say why we feel it’s so wrong

That the people who give us our opinions, the ways we spend
Our money and time, the influences on our young, are themselves,
Through continuous torture, controlled to the final hair of their 

Souls? Why would such a thing even matter to us, they ask,

Is this really only about that man at the library stacks, who

Expressed his love the only way he knew how, by putting his 

Shaking hands inside my pants when I was a boy? 

We don’t have the strength anymore to deny our beliefs,

To go along with a world that treats children like snacks, and

People as extinguishable waste. The Resistance the holds the last

Candle for the dignity of the human race glares at us with disgust
That we exist, as the deepest disgrace, as the force that renders

Life meaningless. But still we must talk – as I do now – something 

Deep inside insists on being perverse, at putting its own survival

And sanity at stake in order to draw more wasted breaths

For a world where to kill is to live.