Sunday Lunch – This Way Madness

These perfect tomatoes
that taste like tomatoes
used to taste…
these perfect red baubles…
a lttle salt…
I feel so guilty
in this pleasure
somewhere in some
US blacksite
an innocent
as innocent as this fruit
is being tortured.

The world is rotting
but the stench
hasn’t reached here yet.

Listening to the birds
seems almost too wonderful.
Seeing the garden’s reflection
and ricochets of brilliance
over my sweet man’s shoulder
in the tall mirror…
I feel almost criminal
in my enjoyment
knowing Truth personified
languishes without sunlight
in a cramped basement
for the crime of exposing
the corruption that led to the victory
of a dangerous lunatic
whose god is Mammon

Is HE to blame, the Aussie?
Of course not –
or blame the weather man
for the weather.

All my simple pleasures
shakled by the depravity
that has gained the high ground.

The helpless hang themselves
but I am not helpless
…my dispair though seems
to be braiding itself
into a raving madness.






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