Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom






Waiting for the Last Tear

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Not knowing whether to praise or let the disgust seep further into a tattered soul the leader chose instead to plop his magnificent tosh in the cushy overstuffed chair. Drugs pumping through his thin veins made his head throb. Issuing ultimatums was the easy part of the job especially when he didn’t have a clue how to gauge the effects of idiotic actions – didn’t give a damn anyway.

All those slobs congregating at the steps of the government buildings only jacked-up the determination of all the party-rats. Lobbyists, body-snatched legislators, and the assorted other rift-raft of a dysfunctional orchestrated corruption were buzzed beyond even their comprehension. Someone, some other tenant of the big business machine state leader’s home had even had the foresight to hang a disco-ball from the orgy hall. Dancing was just short foreplay. Hell, getting right down to the grind and shooting gallons of specially concocted junk into pin-pricked veins along with pounds of white powder into gigantic raw noses – this was the objective – let the bottom-scrappers on the manicured lawn drop dead.

Broken hearts, crying mothers; all that shit just rolled off lily white shoulders. Give them a few scraps from the gold dining table.

A thousand miles in that direction – just out there in the hinterland – army tanks rattled along potholed roads navigating over jagged pavement protruding at odd angles. The whole 5th division was advancing towards the last hamlet occupied by night workers. Unemployed, long-term jobless, idle rebels digging in garbage during the day this whole stinking piece of shit called a town was revolting. Ordering the tanks to fire on these night workers, and assorted malcontents was easy for a squash brain attached to a poisoned body. Just another day in the care of the grinding gears of destruction.

What the hell is all that commotion? The castle guards need to release the attack dogs so they can snag a few limbs so these pushy crawlers can scurry back to their holes. That ringleader standing on a rusty oil drum is raising his fist. Now the whole lot of these peasants is raising their fists. Haven’t those burrito pieces been dumped on the rabble?

Now instead of empty fists their grimy paws are holding big heavy steel wrenches. Waving these wrenches menacingly in time to some unheard musical score they circle wildly towards the sky.

Tomorrow all the entire leadership will meet with this leader – money along with a few of his own harem blonds will surely redirect his passions.

Soap scum, that black ring that encrusts the business of government isn’t easily removed. The days aren’t endless and the years just allow the sore to fester purple. When it erupts the purple will blast from the open roads to crash the parapets to smithereens.

A last tear will fall.