Aphrodite Blue-Eyed Star

Aphrodite Blue-Eyed Star
© Surazeus
2024 12 04

If I wriggle free from the mind machine, 
I might have time to walk to the drug store 
and slide the blank letter in the mailbox 
that I have written to gods in the clouds 
asking if they can give us peace on Earth, 
then go home to eat hot peach cobbler pie. 

Pausing by the willow tree in the park, 
I will sing you ballads from ancient Rome 
proving we are heir to their grand empire, 
since our republic is about to fall, 
and street gangsters disguised as oligarchs 
will soon dictate our national policies. 

Which explains with five simple diagrams 
why we cannot buy bananas anymore, 
but everything else we can buy at the store 
is manufactured in huge factories 
by wage slaves in jungles of southern lands 
where dictators are overthrown each year. 

The latest Aphrodite blue-eyed star 
with golden curls and jeweled crown of fame 
sings sardonic love songs about the fools 
who cheat on her and break her crystal heart, 
for her generic face shines on the moon 
reflecting anguish all teenage girls share. 

The simplest way to change national fate, 
the old homeless stockbroker growls at me, 
is to assassinate ghost of your fear 
who thinks he operates above the law, 
then attend football games on Saturdays 
to cheer Achilles when he scores touchdowns. 

When Midas moves in the White House again 
he will erect statue of golden pride 
just like the one Nebuchadnezzar built, 
bright as idol of Ozymandias, 
to glorify our new imperial age 
annexing Canada and Mexico. 

To be the atheist is not to switch 
religious channels on the network shows, 
but turn the television wholly off, 
then study woolly mammoths to discern 
migration habits of primitive tribes 
before we built empires on skulls of gods. 

Stuck inside functions of the mind machine, 
my egocentric sense of consciousness 
attempts to prove divinity of thought, 
but my small sponge-wet brain is nothing more 
than visionary parasite of faith 
who thinks it emanates the soul of God.