2 min read

“The Powers That Be” have the Midas Touch.

A poem about power, patriarchy, capitalism, and gold.
“The Powers That Be” have the Midas Touch.
Photo by MUILLU / Unsplash

A golden opportunity to know our history.

The VOC spread far and fast; controlling power wide and vast.

Papal greed veiled in piety and class virtuous as a golden calf, buy heavenly notes at midnight mass.

King’s use God to commit atrocities—all aspersions had been cast

…for centuries their wealth amassed, goals to "rev d'or" so briefly dashed,

Back up and then…their speculation-flower-market crashed.

The market rose from those forced in chains below the mast.
and different shores saw different eyes, enslaved, stayed ready, steadfast

Abolishment and broken chains took years to come to pass

the “losing” side changed 13th’s words—to feign that freedom came at last.

Then prisons boomed to shift more cash. And chains for speculation gold kept bodies, striped, still in the past.

Then Gilded Age, shiny torch, with Golden handcuffs, tightly cast. Big Tech, Big 3, push all too fast.

Now Gold is done; we trade on gas; fuel holy wars—not in the past—a newborn died from frightening blasts.
A dog sicked on a kid who laughed; the child, down, the world aghast. And bombs melt earth, like hot blown glass. ALL hospitals completely smashed.

The court broadcasts
the judge lambasts
and yet we watch iconoclasts
espouse their lies with perfect craft. Invite a king who makes up math. Counts dead while peace within our grasp.

We watch the rich grow full with cash;
Control the free and put us last.

Both army, navy, spread teargas

The famine, such a strange contrast.

The Unholy Trinity™️ (capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchy) is just a caste, like Carnivale–a creepy mask.

More faces hide the truth, cut facts in half.

The answer's there for all who ask, their story clear as mirror glass.

While Congress clapped for death en masse, Talib had signs, dissent for Fasc.

Who now to rule? The polls forecast, they count up ballots not yet cast.

We hope to see some greener grass.

The Emperor shows us his bony
boomer
bare
fair
white ass.

As Empire slips from knuckled grasps, “All hail, Another Golden Age at last!”

Form ranks when hope of safety’s dashed. Prepare for hell when powers pass. We’re saving everyone, so join, and fast.

The time is now, our hour—golden, shiny—peace within our grasp.