A Darker Shade of Merry: Unmasked

Christmas Poetry, Sad Santa

Christmas Poetry

 

Billionaires on the cheap market streams of valley dreams to
Walmart’s $9 hourly workers trampled on by covetous, just above
the rubber-necking credit carding, forty hour weekly braille
needing, maxed out, poor.

Alabama mart’s security for $11 an hour, choke-hold a man to
death for failing to achieve an ancient and mythical fright mare
while intoxicated and stupefied relatives kiss beneath the dung
twig, mistletoe.

And Martin Luther had time to decorate a Christmas shrub while
depressingly constipated from sourdough bread hidden from dated,
Middle-aged Roman Pharisee imitators for scribbling proclamations
of the Alpha Everythings’ eternal love and immanent emancipation
from Papal and landlord serfdom.

Is it any wonder that the American Puritans banned all Christmas
celebrations from 1654 to 1681 when today we have 20,000 rent-a
Santa’s to appease our neglected conscience while we trumpet the
misdeeds of our less than precious children following a perpetual
vagabond king who sits on his glistering throne of cursed paper-
mache’ inviting the Omega Universal’s Christmas reward, a soul slaying?

German Magi merchants of receipts deceive the desperately lonely
and those who lack mustard seeding ideas to give sparkling
obligatory gifts of flaring misconnected, emotionless parings
trending urbane theories of exploding universal violence from
matters of not, and being beyond minute, infantile anger and
rebellion to the essence of God envy.

No Bueno, mi amigo, the Abuser of all lays at the root and waits
for a nation of unrepentant, highly over paid, prattling pricks
of pernicious discontent who make previously recorded sound tit
for tyke bites while Un-Holywood rewrites tragic stories into
mis-mandingoed comedies for the soon to be released Misunderstood
Fat Albert Girlogy series and the church of anything pagan
sings amen hymns to the sealed ceiling.

 

more by DEBRA BISHOP

Photograph by Zemler

 

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Debra Bishop

Read, don't read, understand, don't understand Fill your mind, or still your mind, It's you who decides. As for me, I' m in the flow. I am a writer. What else is there to say?

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  • Debra, that poem…”First”…like precious marble chiseled right the first time. I’ll watch out for you, (if) you keep writing like that.