The Newest Old Movement

We watched Frida Kahlo with our backs toward the rice fields The monkey fits tightly to her breast, her right breast. A parrot on her left shoulder; two chatter-boxes that mimic What if the wolves pull our wool over our eyes? In lands where barbarians sacrifice youths for takings, the woman that speaks like a man wears the trousers in our houses She muddled up many sharp wits, but not mine; I’ve seen the Adam’s apple Why are we standing taller than our heroes, and what honor is a wheel-chair to a builder? We‘ve seen Miss Kahlo these days, she believes she can paint a brighter picture. Her children are media fed, and far from initiative; they hunger to prove Marx’s theory, but are scared of the manifesto and the horror mushroomed by the monkey and the parrot on News at Ten In George’s house, where some acquire the taste for caviar, a man is understood like Fidel if he argues for an amendment When Frida went out for tea, and Donald considered running From behind the white wall came the joke, and the four winds were primed to laugh. The monkey whispers lies to Sarah, and the parrot is frequent on the Oprah Show, Oprah, like Frida Kahlo, wears testes, not under corset but beneath Victoria Beckham