Bitter Bites
So what the fuck do we do now?
Where do we grasp
for power
when it feels
that there is none?
No leverage with madmen
clasping at their dreams
of supremacy
and unvalidated intellect,
unjustifiable harshness
in an already ugly world.
We dangle the carrot of hope
half-assedly
these past few years
as if
Covid was just a training session
for this current bullshit madness
we are being roped into believing is
the NEW new,
just the most recent development
that we simply
must quietly
bury deep inside,
absorb heartily;
nonchalantly apathetic
to the burning walls surrounding.
Til we’re bored
of eating bitter bites
of lies twice told
and sour in a once-sweet mouth.
They count on our stamina,
to keep on keepin on,
to carry on,
to work our jobs,
too busy to shop:
feeding one Amazon
while burning another.
April Ridge lurks in the rural hilltops, akin to Mothman’s tomboy cousin, listening for hints of poetry on the wind. She enjoys horror films, the sordid affairs of 1920s circus performers, long walks in pitch black tunnels and the occasional waffle cone from Jiffy Treet. She hopes to highlight the needs of poems in danger, on the run, escaping from the need to fit into one form or another, on their way to the freedom of epiphany. Her work has appeared sporadically in deep space, circling black holes until the dinner bell of eternal fame rings in its echoing chambers.
