‽

‘Yes, but in the Greek alphabet, fuck’s
     only a three-letter word,’ countered
          Isosceles, leader of The Dead
     Metaphors who, for the past fortnight,
          has been embroiled with annoyed local
               authorities in a “cultural
     discussion” turning into a war,
          a pale foreigner and a fearless
               lyricist taking on the far-Right
     in the Near East, fighting for the right
          to perform a poem their clerics
               think should be forbidden, but never
     giving a good goddamn, not even
          in the face of theocracy and
               Fascism, he smiles wide, saying to them,
     ‘Call it heresy if you must, but
          let me ask you one question: isn’t
               the triune symbolism riveting?’

                         F U C K !

And a bureaucracy is a womb,
     an incredible waste of a life
          dictated by The Others shouting
     irrelevance irreverently
          from a tomb, into that vast waiting
               room They always insist is some kind
     of great privilege, Their systemic
          unkindness the only existence,
               that being uncivil is how we
     will overcome the way we were made,
          when Society is the problem,
               and having anything to say, let
     alone standing alone, not at all
          worried about being alone, while
               daring to have the balls to say it,
     must only be one thing: “threatening”—
          and so it panics, leering into
               the jaws of its end, Society

                         F U C K !

that holding pen for those who never
     hold pens, fools typing themselves into
          ever shallower unawareness,
     unknown Selves drowning as Narcissus
          holds them down, laughing while Olympus
               has humanity’s destruction filmed,
     professionally lit and catered
          as Prometheus, regretting what
               he gave them, takes up his fire and chains,
     begging Zeus and his pages to be
          rebound, horrified terribly by
               that unholiest of agonies,
     being “rebranded,” much preferring
          eternal oblivion over
               interaction with any of them,
     reading in their lack of attention
          an omen spanning highest heaven,
               a book like their own minds: unopened.

                         F U C K !

Shaping their ritual of living
     into an idiom, irony
          papers their route with a currency
     throbbing an aura of spin, blind eyes
          thrusting into them an illusion
               of the utmost ultra-delusion,
     coloured green with hyper-realism
          as they spiral outward, dervishes
               perverting poverty for riches
     they take from a myth, forming their own,
          mistaking such aching emptiness
               for ecstasy, trusting only in
     dollars, never experiencing
          the wealth within that they fear, envy
               stirring this frenzy into which these
     exiles rush, abandoning all hope
          of any enlightenment without
               personal accountability.

                         F U C K !

Isosceles, he who cannot be
     cornered, stands before an audience
          as though it were a tribunal, hands
     rising like smoke, curling into fists
          as he begins his set, leverage
               that most intrinsic and most precious
     of all Western gifts that having such
          expensive attorneys gives, the threat
               of oppression vanquished, but with some
     conditions, of course, though nothing tough
          enough to stop The Dead Metaphors
               from playing a show those Philistines
     thought they could silence by using force,
          and so to every enemy
               of free speech Isosceles points and
     says, ‘I won’t hesitate to reply
          from the mouth of my canon when you
               desecrate freedom of expression!’