In the premium capital gains grove,
Where citizens who strove
To prove their love
For King and Country
Once earned paltry wages,
A public mockery of entitlement took place.
They came from distant clans,
Banging on pots and pans.
Drumming an unearthly din
While wearing earplugs:
Shattering the spin.
They can't pay the rent;
The citizens dissent.
Then, the rulers relent:
"We won't give you a cent,
But we'll give our assent to genocide."
They spew out their garbage.
The PM is away.
Their secret meetings take place
On land; on air; in space.
The rusty brass band plays
Broken-down melodies
From bygone days
The trade routes remain risky,
Like that seventh or eighth whiskey.
You mutter to yourself trying to sleep,
But troubles creep upon your psyche.
Then, briskly, the optimist's dreams recede.
Empty noise and futile fury
Evaporating fast, like suds
From some bitching
New microbrewery
The squire; the shire; the working poor.
World on a Wire: simulations of paradox
As the oceans perspire
And fire rages on the Port Hills.
Technocrats acquire their birthright.
Another day, another tragedy.
Amanda Riddell
6 March 2024
Another day, another tragedy.
Updated: Mar 9
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