Wednesday, May 6, 2009

The Minister


The Minister Thinks.
In his Department of Woe.
He has all the figures.
Knows all there is to know.
His minions they dance,
with praise and with primp,
on each gesture obsequious,
the leave nothing to chance.
At the lunches they gather,
with cocktails and shrimp.
On show, signs and blather,
they squander not scrimp.

But in the middle of this menagerie
sits the Minister.
With impassive face,
and sold mien,
but his arteries are red,
on his neck pulses a vein.
His hands have grown cold,
with the night's long exertions,
he works almost alone,
beset by desertions.

Surrounded by memos,
that say nothing with much,
he feels in exile,
and almost out of touch.

But then like the hen that has laid the last egg,
he looks upwards to heaven,
for some salvation he begs.

In the quaint morning hours,
the Minister sits.


The Minister speaks,
and all who can listen,
watch as the screens pour out light
and the cameras glisten.

He goes over the judgments
and under the time,
he outlines mistakes that were made
perpetratorless crimes.

His posse is gathered,
with their suits and their bling,
the know that this play
is just the thing.

The giggle and laugh,
so easy for them,
the chosen few
sanguine not phlegm.

The minister speaks,
but nothing is heard,
it's the meaning that's madness,
not the content of words.
The vultures that gathered,
outside of the room,
see that they have reached the limit
from feasting on gloom.


The Minister Stands.
Before the cameras and mikes,
he explains what he splained,
and speak what he writes.
The dance is begun,
in a trickle of hours,
all over the world,
the dragon hoard flowers,
flowers from slumber of winter,
to gorging in spring.
They act without conscience,
but with the blessing of kings.

The minister at the center of this,
surveys the blank faces,
in the city of Dis.
It is as he thought,
in that wanton lost dawn.


The Minister sits,
it begins again,
selling the future,
to his present friends.

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