America The Prostrate: by RJ O'Guillory

America The Prostrate

In a simplistic sort of way,
across a desert lit by the moon.
America lay prostrate,
lulled by prosperity’s tune.

Beautiful thing in a world gone mad,
everyone knows the lies being spoke.
They spill from the mouths of bankrupt souls,
leaderless people, morally broke.

The globe spins on, a compact disc,
television soothes the planet.
Hard drives quietly think away,
politicians run the gamut.

Prostrate pricks, sucking away,
at America’s aging tit.
Pay up now, or go to jail,
they care less, how you take the hit.

They act as if it will never end,
the Nazis felt much the same.
Fortify your home, your town,
these criminals have no real shame.

The knock on the door will surely come,
midnight terror of the state.
Theft, lies, fraud and deceit,
social incubators of pure hate.

Hang from a rope, they surely will,
these prophets of civic duty.
After the riots, the death, the trials,
before these pirates split the booty.

RJ O'Guillory
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Boomer

A winter wind upon us,
crystal, chilled silk bones.
Lust, no lonely orphan,
in manufacture of our groans.

Joys of youth, sands of time,
pass slowly through the crack.
Aged genie, trapped in a bottle,
life’s set, fades gently to black.

Material gain, material loss,
get George Foreman's grills.
Magnetized cards, late night orders,
storage lockers, filled to the gills.

Broken families, raised by a village,
perhaps, battered by a spouse.
Credit floats the whole generation,
everything riding on the house.

From the bottom of the barrel,
looking up, from where one lay.
Rot dreams of glorious youth,
the price we were forced to pay.

The barrel may be home or den,
Hell takes any kind of shape.
Looking up, from the bottom,
it still feels mostly like a rape.

Everyone may think us done,
America remains, just a rumor.
Who pulled down those towers,
you’re nothing but a Boomer.

RJ O'Guillory