Ivan Donn Carswell Poems

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Clean your glory glasses, scrub the lenses clean
and see the puissant morons stare;
garbed in common guises far from unfamiliar,
guises fair as anyone you know or care,
and what they seem is who they are,
and what they do and what they don’t
reflects their heir to common rationality.
They’re a film upon our ears and eyes
which mocks our haul to sanity, to plague
our petty little worlds with toxic insincerity.
Puissant I say, I meant ‘piss-ant’, but both apply,
they’re decadent, obsolete, a non-event.
Yet tell them so and bear the wrath; I’d rather not,
I’m kind of loath to bear more scars as recent as today.
So why, you say, demur, now are you man or mouse?
I’ll even purr if you can rub my fur just right
and suffer fools as gladly as the next
but keep those bastards out of sight.
© I.D. Carswell

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