Casting Couch Is Visited By Zeus as Golden Rain
BY THE AMERICAN POET AND SATIRIST ERIC SIGLER
descend through spears that rallied at the sky,
and railed against the theme -
four years beneath a shroud-
until I woke to see that, in my eye,
I could not emancipate the dream
from shackles chained to starlight -
a strident stalker wading through the night,
an endless specter searching for a theme....
high-heeled hopes broken by the darkness,
love that lies alone on mirrored splinters,
shattered by the monuments of defeat,
that thrust into the eyes the vile success
of tyrants who elect to be successors -
their statutory statutes on the plaques -
marble mountains moved on others' backs -
destroyers in the mantles of the victors....
though prophecies are dead - the prophets mute -
the grander grandeur - puppet on a pulpit-
the bloviating toxins on his breath
the wind that withers trees and dries the roots,
that topples the foundations of the spirit,
the ignorance that feeds on fear and doubt,
that puts the fire of liberty ever out,
and leaves us desolate and destitute....
and lock his daughter there until forever.
The father of no country - of no child -
the bearer of the void - this lightless age -
who hides his terror in his gilded tower -
to torture and torment those he defiled
by lies that fed the truth of their desire
to hold their leader highest of the higher,
the feral alpha calling to the wild.
imprisoned in a dungeon with no window.
The tyrant feared the oracles of karma,
and as he held the absolutes of power,
he knew that his today would come tomorrow -
that death would be a sorry melodrama -
his name would ever desecrate the dust
that drowns the articles of blinded trust -
the tides of time that brought us this enigma...
that slims him in the image of himself -
his hair the color of the coming sun.
He wears it like the falsified demeanor
of pimps who preen to flash their worthless wealth,
who act as if the answer and the one.
So self-absorbed, delirious with power,
he seeks to steal the mother from the father,
or be the father of his daughter's son....
nor touch a drink to demonize his soul.
He feels his bloated beauty does not change -
but stoops to snort an energizing powder,
his fingernail dipped in a crystal bowl,
a morbid mind the dopamine deranges,
that stimulates the power of abuse,
so that he thinks himself the mighty Zeus,
that he will come disguised as Golden Rain.
plucks his brows and bellows like a bull.
He looks again into his lying mirror,
but can not see the truth of his disgrace -
that he must grope to find a fingerful,
that he can't stand erect without a popper,
however beauty sizzles in his child -
the image of himself that he defiled
and locked inside a dungeon in his tower.
bends upon his knees and bows his head.
The sanctuary of his inner demons
is draped in curtains made of funeral shrouds.
The promises he pilfered for the dead
he offered in the rantings of his sermons,
the lies that told the truth of his deceit,
the deadly hatred of the feigned elite,
who look upon their lessers as their vermin.
and he has liquified into the chamber
where he can rape and pillage and destroy -
and like a madman - utterly insane -
he showers his gifts upon his sleeping daughter,
and leaves his seed to scatter and deploy
the legions of the army of amorals,
the vengeance of the gross deplorables,
who never knew the simple joy of joy.
I offer this entertainment to the Ball,
and join the singers singing their bright songs,
knowing that we face pure disillusion,
that what we saw before was not at all
the truth that has amassed in these dark throngs,
the hatred now that's branded on the sleeves,
the golden calf in which the crowd believes -
here neither love nor joy nor hope belongs....