PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

This is what he told me, last week,

during a walkaround after lunch to

avoid the listening devices:

Seven years since the last surviving one

was eliminated; that was your senior

collegiate year, at a private university

right?---I thought so.  I pride myself on

mastering even the trivial details of my

friends' lives; I have so few of them, any

more that the process is relatively easy.

The Minister of Exterior Information

generously but rather accurately 

praised my decision (in a special bulletin

carried on the third pace of the

TRiUMPhant Trumpet;

ues, the hard copy of the article, framed,

hangs on a siteworthy place on the wall

opposite my desk, where I can see it):  a

publiclly and pre-emptively broadcast hanging

(without hood) rather than a private

live dissection (without anesthetic)---rather

inexpensive to produce, greater entertainment

value (have you ever noticed this strange

phenomenon?---people seem to be less

squeamish about lynchings than surgical

procedures). and the advertising revenues

exceeded even the most wildly optimistic

projection.  The SurreptSearches were

soon rescheduled (at least for that kind)

from daily, to weekly, and then monthly---

still maintained at that infrequency---when we

were able to prove---to the satisfaction of the

Supreme and CEOathed Trunpeter, himself:

that the existence of those Homos---faggots---

fairies---queers---had been finally, efficiently, and

entirely expunged (ripped, if you will, torn from the

rewoven fabric of our fashionable society)

and has become only a bad memory of bad

perversion (which even the Party's highest ranked

psychiatrists agree is, in all documented cases a 

bad choice, or an act of subversively rebellious

attention-seeking to satisfy a disrutptive adolescence).

But I must admit this:  once in a while, during those

eerily silent, sleepless nights (far more

frequent, now, than even in my own senior year at the

state university), I am haunted by what (I now

realize) is one of the most erotic, and most

natural sounds that we (arrogant bastards that we

are) drove into extinction (drove, with a zealously

thrilling excess of vindictive cruelty) into complete and

total, irrevocable extinction:  the lovely, romantic

sounds of two beautiful men . . . fucking, the

almost poetic moans when they come . . . .

Just over seventy-two hours ago, the Second Assistant

Deputy Director was assassinated (bullet right through the

head, just as he was about to hail a cab; brains all over the

sidewalk, and the other work-force pedestrains, standing too

close to him).  The suspect was brought in for questioning; but,

before that process began, he was shot while trying to escape;

shot---dead---while trying to escape.  Today, I received a

PriEM (oh, right, you do not have those in the FastFood

business; that means, Priority E-Mail) that I am to be

promoted---Provisional First Assistant Deputy Director.  That,

certainly, deserves a celebratory fuck.  Oh, you shouldn't

worry:  your husband  won't worry about where you are

for several days---not until he sleeps off the worse

hangover of his niserable existence . . . .

Starward