podpolia

i'm tempted to start writing more or less a political column in here. i mean, i pay enough attention to it to be rather informed about what's going on, and quite often i don't write much ELSE in here… so why not with the columnizing?

ok, i've once again pulled a maneuver that alli named after me… namely, purging my buddy list. some of the names i didn't delete, but for the most part i probably won't talk much to people until they IM me first (the exception being those people who already talk to me on a regular basis).
i was thinking about it and i realized just how few people really talk to me online. i mean, why bother leaving them on my list if they aren't going to talk to me?

again the end of yesterday
when all the makeup flakes away
the anchor's face a peeling hull
that finally reveals a skull

the monster is revealed beneath
as what our nation will bequeath
and only i am still awake
as TV ties us to the stake

the people bound, the torch is lit
the glowing skull then laughs a bit
and leers at us from glowing tubes
and never ending rows of boobs

the fire starts and by its flame
the lines of sickness and of shame
stand stark before the sightless eye
of those who are about to die

i pull against the fiery chain
and those around me feel no pain
the dull of eyes and blank of face
are busy watching 'will and grace'

the fire climbs, my fingers scorch
as death stands by with flaming torch
“why?” i shout aloud at last
the skull replied, its voice was vast

“your people forged these chains of steel,
with fiery eye and iron heel
but now they shrug and roll their eyes
when TV kills and i tell lies,

“in giving me a will my own
and putting me upon the throne
you spared yourself the need to think
and turned your head to sex and drink

“you urged me on with laissez-faire
and soon you simply ceased to care.
the smut, the filth, the endless waste
or even just a lack of taste

“in doing so,” the death's head said
“you gave to me my daily bread,
now large enough i am and so
it's simply time to end the show.”

condemned by our own frankenstein
the smoke i breathe, and i resign.
the flames now licking at our sides
rise from our pyre of 'tv guides.'

the living dead, with measured tread
waltz blind across the floor
their rotting feet move to the beat
their sightless eyes are dead.

this morbid waltz, despite its faults
moves smoothly to and fro
the putrid band, with rotting hand
cheerfully play the waltz.

their souls are gone, their feet move on
they're lively, yet are dead
the bright ballroom shines in the gloom
until the coming dawn.

i've written a couple poems lately. not anything really wonderful, but i think i'll post 'em, as i haven't been depressed enough lately to feel like writing in here