or, Poem with a Short Shelf Life
are selling anal chastity belts
out the back of the Sodomy is Sin van.
NASCAR dads are snapping them up,
$39.99, though God know what they’re doing
with metallic panties that lock a sphincter so tight
Thor’s hammer couldn’t crack them open.
They feel the double tension of attempted penetration,
automatically squeezing their assholes closed so that
nothing gets in or out—pressure wants to do both.
That’s gotta be a fag, it couldn’t possibly be the Republican dildo,
a mighty beast of vibrating lies, red as the blood of soldiers,
composed of ramrod stiff underhandedness,
decoupaged with hundred dollar bills and cheap paper flags.
Some veterans are barking their blah, blah, blah,
lies about heroes who damn well better get
the treatment they expect, which is to have more
of a voice than they are entitled to, a little grandiose
glory wouldn’t hurt either. They’re too pussy
to take criticism, think that fighting—or just serving—
absolves them of all their human flaws forever.
Radio’s boarhounds, unleashed from the gates of hell
just in time for Ashcroft’s manufactured apocalypse,
tear down every Democratic strongman that pops up
the ugly, Rovian way—attack their strengths and play
to your own weaknesses—and the dildo pushes harder.
O, Amurca, throw open your sphincters,
the corporate gods demand it! The military industrial complex
has a Tomahawk missile radar-locked on your ass anyway—
you thought it was aimed at your wallet, but it’s aimed at your vote.
Scaremongers, and a President in charge of dumbing down,
carefully crafted to be Just Like You™, with all your
advantages of breaking even; a cowboy-booted thug
with a bulging pocket, promising the fuck of your life.
(I am so gonna get flamed for this, but I don’t care. I’m just playing around with my frustration. This would be in MPSIMS, 'cept for the language. )