Yet, mom and dad still look them in the eye, lie as any liar will, straight away...telling them, it's all ok. Ignore it all. It will disappear, as they down their little 'drinkypoo', a perk or two, couple lines of white snow or endless smoke, purchased from clandestine lords of death, residing round some South American city. It's all ok, you know.
But there's the rub. They know. They know, it's not ok, nor anywhere near. They came here, knowing more than you ever will. Can't you see? Your wise and carnally configured children, growing without you...ready for what none of you admit is happening? Their private little worlds, you know nothing of...where children grow, having none of you...but themselves.
Haven't you noticed? They are smarter than you, unguided...certain sure, as if they had a map, a plan...that only they are party to? Can't you see a god damn thing, people? Really? Don't you realize, if you will not take a hand...they will? A cold and heartless hand, it might be. Different world, different rules.
But now, you just go right on, as you were...ignoring the view, all sense of right...for the sake of propriety. You keep pampering your devils, right there in the house on Pennsylvania avenue, and they keep nodding their heads to every word you say...until they're old enough and strong enough...to eat you!
Fret not. The children will do well. It's thou, that need to know, that need to see, that need to hear...that need to grow. It's thou, that need to get a clue, and hurry...hurry. Vote your fear. Scurry to your little hole, for you, dear heart, your appetite, beyond all lust, for eating every precious thing...consumes the world, and nothing left at all...to they.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google pic
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