The messengers

These potent prophets weep
whispers of revolution.
"Coups d'état! Coups d'état!"
Their mutinous song of woe
men, seize and appropriate.
The tusks of ideology latch on to the
cusp of my breast.
Politics impregnates my soul.

Power curdles the shackled lactose,
bitter and sour, like semen.
These prophets reek in tongues;
a truth known yet hidden.
The message is lost in a mesh.
Of shame. Restraint. And lace.

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