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Protestors

David Lawrence

A failure of imagination like a broken sinus.
They line up in the street
In a mélange of inarticulate complaints.
Politics.
Achew.
They have abandoned God,
Bless you.

Protestors could never imagine a poem
A painting
A song
Or some other homogenized way to topple the covenant,
The faces of their dead religions on milk containers.

John Lennon wanted a revolution.
He got killed by the middle class dream of a fan.
What’s lower than a fan?
Fanatics breed fanaticism.
A group of morons chasing things as they are with signs.

I can’t bicycle past their jam and toast traffic.
I can’t do wheelies in my own air.
I have no space.
They are breathing my refusal and protecting
Their fake innocence,
Intersecting with my direction.

A protest is a gestalt of idiotic faces
Who think their lips deserve every other girl’s lipstick.

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