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Capitalist Marauders

By Sotère Torregian

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Comment (1)

  • On March 2, 2010 at 7:37 pm Eric Landon wrote:

    Impercebtible the reversing sail-wind-marina men life-bouys
    hopless as the storm whisp spun

    thread-twisting tousling blockage, ideas the rope hung us on,
    fictional characters,

    trussed up trolls, a spark of life itself plots for prince or gold,
    one queen goddess ascending

    memorized in fixed proof invisibly written, bi-polar Jon Wild,
    his utterance

    a hundred seconds of sweat, twenty more bombers looped-out,
    tubular i-pod ludicrously blowing the mind, a great title

    the only rule in fictional truth, antediluvian geneologies’
    and line-edge Claymore answerers – sparthaxe, saffron, kern, hip

    bowl-tonsure red-black, fair and squarely cut, focail bána,
    moire accent, first the word a final night, Chuchulain

    dead, a mortal god whirr laughing fictional heffers
    lowing on a rag, rented sacred nemetons in druidic blue

    trawl through, slim sheaf of fully realised things -
    forever a day and night together in the eternal life

    it lives where blackbirds flock and Ollamhs sing a book,
    satchel and chalk pat caress the vellum, Tir na Og

    behind a copyist’s mind, hiding clues, a cipher for ..d’yer
    know who it is yet? – the most empathetic on-air person,

    in sonic kooky mooing, being tough in noughties Dublin, before the bubble burst?

    ~

    I love ‘hardcore capitalist thug-strata, SoTo: it conjurs up a portrait so telling and true, of the fed-aiders consumed by a top few percent who share the lot.

    Maurading facist-commie scum, trash of all hue and cry for bigger Government. The parasites and degenerate misfits, spare unworking freeloaders bleeding from the body of honest Capitalism top down, bottom up – everything we got.

    The kickback, taxes, tithes, percentage and easing of walkabout money, the qualitative accounting, derivative shakedown, payout, fáilte, welcome billions extra printed freebies we gotta have because they’re ours …mmm, yummy money, it’s all we need. Damn straight capitalism it’s sleight of hand-over the eight, mirror manouevring eyes to sky-wide open and too confusing for losers.

    I want your money.
    Give it to me.
    Make me calm.
    You saw the hand.
    You know the face.
    You speak the name.
    You make it come
    Sawbuck, Jackson
    Benjamen, lettuce,
    Bread, bacon
    Dosh, wonger, wedge
    Twankie.

    Hand it over
    Give it to me.
    The moolah
    Serve up the loot.
    Take me to your ruler.
    Give me all you’ve got.

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Posted in Uncategorized on Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010 by Sotère Torregian.