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| Aristocracy Available for Purchase | |
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| Aristocracy No rules but your own who are to the manor born, but you have not gone unnoticed. I see you. I have a friend. And he sees, too. He sees the greed glowing, the ghost eyes. He sees you grinding those below, sleepwalking them through pastures wherein they would lie down, sees you pushing them on, trampling good with bad. Thy rod and thy staff, the stiff horn of power breaking them, and if they feed, they feed on excrement - the ice cream an ornament, a luxury like the white tie and tails, an affectation with which only you are comforted. I might tell you about the line of storm roiling in the north, tell you as its author what path it will take, what timetable follow, but instead I will tell you in signs like God does. Yet, even now, where it is written quite plainly -- Keep off -- you keep ignoring these very words. Know this: in a cellar deep within the rotting heart of America, a young Mennonite is compiling stories of apocalypse and you are figured within them, pinned there like a steer emasculated by prophecy and the God you will never truly usurp. Marc Harshman, (poet & children’s author), Wheeling, West Virginia Aristocracy They are a monolith of wealth and privilege. A single entity staring down and speaking to us in a voice that could shatter stone. Telling us they are similar creatures, of the same blood and flesh. They are powerful and exotic and frightening in their tuxedos and expensive dresses, watching as we sweat and bleed in the fields. We are filthy and tired and swollen with the pride of laborers. And they would stare down at us. Not simply content to walk over us, they have us carry them through. We are a resource, nothing more, instruments to be used and broken and disposed of. We crawl through a field of the fallen with their heels in our backs. We crawl with their indulgent bulk upon us, our muscles straining and our bones breaking as they steal milk from our starved children to make sweets that melt in the sun. -Eirik Gumeny, Nutley, NJ Aristocracy With huge straight horns,the bovine face shows no disgrace but to me it's kind of strange,especially that look of pain or innocence combined to deceive all servants of the Law as the aristocracy are hell bent on crime. Log into the cool expression of the Holy cow perhaps elevated to Country Squire and the essential escapade of the mad Hunt Ball, a pure must in entertainment and worth a visit in snappy black bow tie. Seek out. Savour too the delight of Italian ice-cream. Ignore it if some drips on the white frilly shirt as there are plenty more in the upper drawer. Rather taste the delightful moment when in the wildness of the hunt feet get forgetful and act as impossible to control. Hear too the gypsy beat of Malaga as each foot strikes out to accost its quarry. And watch the animated hooves, a tessellated object born of the gentry and a special master plan. -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, United Kingdom |
