My cat’s sleeping directly next to me. I’m trying not to move.
This poem is about presidential and political rally speech writers.
It’s a work in progress.
White Man Hold Pen Speak Loud, poem by Drem
March 16, 2016
“You’re so full of cliches.
They come out, spurt out like fireworks
after the ideas swell in front of your eyes
as you lick the tip of the microphone, your pen.
Tilt your head back now.
Spit it out.
It’s why I keep a small blue garbage can
next to the couch.
I can’t keep what you write down, either.
Words and words and words
drip from your lips
making me sick
Monotone, greyscale sentences
just make me depressed and want to die.
I’m that dramatic when it comes to anti-climactic phrases.
Black and sticky in helvetica.
Not even mixed with pastel synonyms.
There’s an ocean of words, but you recycle rhetoric.
Sound bites, click bait
get the attention from the schools of fish
that follow the mysterious singular brain of the pack
as they jump head first into sardine cans.
Your pundit is the can,
in the pocket of your man.
Good job scoring delegates.
All lemons with lemonade and chimps in a cage.
Roses and eyeglasses and bulls in a cabinet.
I don’t like the taste either.
That’s all that English degree got you
If this is the best you have,
Try to swallow.
Scrape your tongue with the dish towel.
There’s a blue one in the basement
and keep writing those presidential speeches.
Hide in the buses at the rallies.
They keep you employed.
No shame in money.
It’s surely more than what I get
for my stupid poetry.
But at least I’m not on my knees
selling out my country.”
(C) 2016 Drem