The March Of The Immoral Compass

Onward to the march she came to share solidarity,

eventually to be burned by another’s insincerity.

She fled, her brain inflamed;

the scene, it was insane.

Twas better for her to defy her moral compass, I confess,

than choke on the evening’s immoral and errant excess.

 

Oh, but what she saw and sensed …

Oh, what she beheld that made no sense:

Loons, full moons and fire …

… a city lead to mire:

 

Masks up, pants down

Turn anti-sentiment upside-down.

Preach the peace laced with hate,

Spread some caustic love then dissipate.

 

Spin the news to agitate,

Come for peace then castigate.

With words of unity we’ll castigate,

Come my love to instigate.

 

Sing a song of murdered poets,

Tell a tale of fascist woe …

Speak with words unspoken,

Never mind the prose.

 

Come all ye faithful, dressed in black and red,

Fly your flags of politics,

Come exploit the dead.

 

Sanctify the sacred ire,

Baptize spirits in blood and fire.

Torch your composure then conspire,

Throw some stones to inspire.

 

Now you see the peasants and the fleas

Jump to scream in unity.

Pay no mind to the point …

Use your manifesto to roll a joint.

 

We all need a martyr for the cause.

Thanks for dying on your cross.

We’ll post your image, our cries heaven sent …

and then in time we’ll ask what your name was again.

 

And now my love, what have we here?

Let me dry your crocodile tears.

My heart bleeds for your affection.

Our love is one of insurrection.

 

[Additional Testimony From A Bystander]

The night was young and filled with loons, full moons and fire.

A dedicated rally was held for the slain rapper.

Twas business as usual for the disaffected youth,

as blocks away the elite dined on the rotting remains of their apathy.

The streets burned with boiling rage and misplaced testosterone,

as obscenities whistled through the air along with marble fragments.

A march to certain confrontation bore signs of persuasive political perversion,

as the authorities looked on, masturbating their batons in hand, awaiting orders.

Before the night was through, the rapper would die again a thousand times

in the minds of the incensed, but still with lyrics unspoken.

Never mind, life goes on in these troubled times …

… and so does death.

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PS. On September 17th, Anti-fascist Greek hip hop and rap artist Pavlos Fyssas, known by his stage name Killah P, was stabbed to death by a supporter of the Neo-Nazi party Golden Dawn. Anti-Fascist rallies were held. Some came to protest. Some came to cry. Some came for the violence, just because.