Canned laughter is now real laughter.
Haunted by echoes of the past,
Ricky being an arse reminding the
regularity of armour,
war warn tits n ass,
a few guns & cards,
Noired new level technicolour.
Such bitter truths contrast.
Flashback re-past
trading traditions on the problematic
sighs the spectre of progress:
cowboy hats n oil, doll.
I have a political joke but am silenced.
I speak anyway
and my words become menstruation,
you are my brand.
I am the fire.
Make wit of this, witness,
see such media storms,
Black dogs been and gone:
swords are sharpened in ink
and spill loose the truth.
Performative allies wake
not knowing performance was always woke,
do you get the joke?
Hold still as between the lines
we choke, cough up blood
and come back for more.
Eye to eye, mi amores.
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