A Love Story
Where does one begin
to fill-in the story
of a life left in
the path of glory
where the hero always dies
and the maiden always cries?
Where no one ever wins.?
The story of the loss of innocence
by innocent means:
Of the loss of camelot
in tight dungarees.
Of death in a pastoral setting
a host of Sun-dried daffodils.
Of hope lost in the kitchen
a decathlon of bitching.
Of bombshells exploding
with self-loathing and boding
half a hillside
of floral overkills.
What happens to those who remain?
Are they ever the same?
Or do they become unrecognizable?
The heroes are now the villains.
The maidens are having migraines.
Innocence has a new face.
Violence is commonplace.
Dungarees are a disgrace.
Bombshells explode
in neighborhoods.
The planet keeps getting hotter.
Religions murder and slaughter
in the name of gods.
Politicians are frauds.
Phones are not for calling
no need for ear-pods.
Send me a text if you don’t believe it.
Where do we go from here?
The nearest habitable planet
is 70 lightyears away, maybe
and yet they say
we can get there if we plan it.
But this nuthouse world
keeps spinning
led by nuts obsessed with winning.
Everything about them is false
a regular rock & roll waltz
yet millions of minions follow
ever so hollow
brains like marshmallows.
We have entered the twilight zone:
Of Large Hadron (whoever he is?)
Colliders wrapped around mountains
of paper, more than likely.
Of escaping mutants that kill millions
now being accepted
as the norm for us billions.
Of asteroids being moved
like a carom shot
in billiards or snooker.
And the end result is what?
Fast Eddy wins
or Minnesota Fats goes viral.
Life is but a spiral
a double helix of genes
like jeans, when you wring them out.
And so, I dream of colder times
when we kept our caps on
and with digital integrity
covered our fingers
and toes.
Where Santa worked
but one night a year
and didn’t linger
at every street corner, mall
or barroom.
My name is K. B. Morrison.
I work at the munitions factory.
What does the K. B. stand for?
KA-BOOM!