The Vogue Revolutionary

Atop his pedestel he calls,
and from this pulpit, his truth
is dispensed like feed, an
offering for the chickens
and sheep.

Thumbing his woolen beard
He hands down personal verity;
So that we might, in turn, grow
our own face-pelts and thumb them
in thoughtful concordance.

His tongue is not only forked
but twice-split and it hisses
to the multitudes while the
third section reaches back
to tickle his own ear.

And so, The Vogue Revolutionary
Becomes a Crash of Keys, a
Crackle of Certain electrons.
He Hurtles through the ether;
Sounds a thousand seperate
Bullhorns, and adds his voice,

To the sea of slogan-sayers
And dimestore evanglists.

“It’s so simple.”

The Vogue Revolutionary proclaims:

“From each
according to his ability,
to support the troops,
who put country first,
to each
according to his hatred
for the Arab, Jew, Mason,
Negro, Banker, CEO
and wage-slaver!”

He believes he holds
The truth a hostage,
As a whore, exclusive
To his own Carnality.

And secure in his den
of
Words without verve,
Knowlege without context,
and
Society without Society;

The Vogue Revolutionary
Thumbs his beard,
Bites his thumb,
and flies a flag of patchwork.

While unbeknownst to us,
From from his vile: drops.
Flavor for our intoxicants.