As treason next door unfurls the flags and symbols of fallen enemies;
recycled history plays itself out in halls swimming in the blood of historic agenda decay rates.
Back when business-was-usual, seeds were sown around the world to assist homegrown tyranny,
a global mercenary takeover in process, gangster capitalists, the Grifter King and his court of
arms dealers and money lenders now floundering in daylight.
Nothing, from the first tweet to the last challenged ballot to the insurrection was unexpected,
an end inevitable since the President first began to lie in the Oval Office without shame,
allowed to continue as the republican media fed fantasies to their goats,
Trump goading them to trample the sheeple in their demonic parody of Christianity.
Rupert Murdoch's ill-spirited print and broadcast agenda made all this inevitable,
sins of omission and commission aired and published like bait to which Donald's Jesusadis
rose to his dark trumpeting, to his nihilist cynicism, entrancing them, ensuring they were
unable to see or feel the surrender of their doubts while entering his alternate reality,
denying every collision with all that is actual.
Many will deny him before the end: witnesses and enablers
of the vanities of the Grifter King, the greatest con in American history, a man
without conscience. If nothing else, his place secured as the great manipulator,
will contain him in a madness far worse than that of old King George.
The fey enchanter of followers who believe him to be Jesus the Second come,
a Grifter King-sized Anti-Christ for all able to discern his true character in a glance, his disciples
lost in the litany of lies fed to them by forgers of treason, by the adherents of slavery,
by wannabe warriors of cultural and actual genocide, by underwriters
of indentured servitude trade systems, overblown
in the love of their manifest platitudes, and dismembered beatitudes.
As treason next door unfolds in competing strains of high noted spewtrails of breadcrumb news
half-baked by sociopaths, the underbelly of the governed cannot help but slouch towards bedlam,
tracing the increments of classical republican decay, with orchestratrations by
a cohort of well-heeled, swamp creatures with red ties to the underbelly of gangster capitalists.
We have reached the endgame of The Republic's Platonic prophecy where
the degenerate pursuit of private property and profit gives rise
to popular tyranny, committed to the goal of suppresing the chaos of democratic neo-liberal
boutique identity politics, a tyranny already unravelling more coinspiracies
while the warrior philosophers take the stage, desiring neither profit nor property
for restoring the handwritten page that first constituted the Democratic Republic,
servers of sworn truths, not held by the Grifter King or his enablers.
The bewildered, the befuddled, the delusional and the defiant have now had their received reality
shoved back in their faces by shield wielding defenders of capitol, which is when their prayers of
deliverance unraveled into the conspiracy of corrupt cops bent on opening chaos, getting
one of their own killed by the brute force of gate crashers and one fire extinguisher wielding man
gone mad, because reality wasn't yielding the way it should have been, given the promises made
by treasonous congressmen, truths they had been told turning into lies; the entire world watching
the internal compasses of republicans run amok among the haywires.
Lost now in the triumph of the defeat that forever unites them, the insurrectionists
celebrate their small victories while law enforcement tracks down the self-produced evidence
of their joy of breaking and entering, their selfies of smashing, of smearing their nation’s
sacred spaces with feces during their ecstatic victories of delusion, laying bare their crimes,
petty and otherwise, even as the human instinct for turning on others to save ourselves
continues to betray them, each to each disloyal to self-evident truths discarded,
each having chosen but not yet ready to face having acted, some never will,
the parchments of their nation's sacred declarations, like words never written, replcaed by
QANON's Babbling Tower of breadcrumbs caving in around their homes and jobs,
losing their podiums platform after platform along with those of their traitor-in-chief,
collapsing suits playing out the charade of their intentions; their prayers unanswered,
the end not far off, betrayed by reality, by what they chose to disbelieve about what was actual;
their love of the grifter who would be king, leading to the death spiral of their hopes
on the wrong side of history; the gyre of a despair some may never understand,
holding them forever in place, forever unable to see how they seperated themselves
from the sheeple they despise following the goatherd to hell.
The sands of the time for repentance and confession
are already shifting beneath the proud boys and girls of inglorious intent
during the still unfolding days before the inauguration of their worst nightmares,
the plot still unfolding as they go into withdrawal from the daily loss of the QAnon junk
they shot into the veins of their movement, the hells of sobriety now theirs to endure
in the cold light of futures lost.
