Best Agitprop Poems
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
Seventeen minutes to midnight - the world enters a new era,
nuclear arsenals reduce as peace creeps ever nearer.
Fourteen minutes to midnight - our hopes begin to fade,
as we discover no new world order, just the powder keg we've made.
Twelve minutes to midnight - there's tests on bombs non stop,
we need to sign a peace treaty to end this agitprop.
Ten minutes to midnight - Eastern Europe leaves the block,
shattering communism, the world stares back in shock.
Nine minutes to midnight - nuclear armament gathers pace,
nation challenging nation to win the world arms race.
Seven minutes to midnight - we're officially nucleoholic,
each missile's the last one, each threat of peace symbolic.
Five minutes to midnight - global warming walks on stage,
ironically nuclear power will usher in the world's new age.
Three minutes to midnight - world tensions are renewed,
disarmament grinds to a halt as superpowers obtrude.
Two and a half minutes to midnight - fake news is on the rise,
with fabricated statements, politically calculated lies.
Only two minutes to midnight - the whole world's breath is bated,
the doomsayer counting down, a holocaust long awaited.
In those two cold minutes to midnight - doomsday's knell is ringing,
announcing Armageddon, not the end but its beginning.
19th Feb 2018
Twitter’s a sewer;
I find I press fewer
and fewer times launching that app.
An agitprop brewer,
though slightly less bluer,
these days, my feed’s mostly pure crap.
There’s fodder for poems
(you probably know ‘em)
such as Florida Man’s escapades,
like when he bought the farm
when a gator disarmed
him while hiding from cops in the ‘glades.
So, sometimes I open
the app when I’m hoping
to get inspiration to write,
but it’s time to change horses
and find better sources
that won’t disappoint me tonight.
In money we believe.
In superstition we trust.
Fill the offering basket
And present yourself for duty.
Preach fire to your Facebook choir
And get your social media fix
With sacramental podcasts and tweets
From the pantheon of agitprop.
Videotape your obsessions
For anonymous voyeurs’ delight.
Let Tik Tok compel your attention
As your mind fills the void it deserves.
Arouse your conspiracy’s fervor
On the way to gaining likes and shares,
While the women and the children
Fall in on the refugee trail.
Soon your ego’s grown bloated
Like those dead army mules
Lying by the side of the road
In a war correspondent’s photo.
If your house gets egged
On the first day of war,
You can expect that escalation
Is just a hand grenade away.