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A graphic narrative about the decline of our civilization. |
We Are Locusts A graphic narrative about the decline of our civilization. Edited by Livingston County Writers & Critics Support Group I walked along the street today I felt despair in every move Yes, every sound; the darkness of despair There was no life I could perceive Only mindless movement like locusts on a leaf There were no homes where children played; where mothers loved and taught For children left their mothers’ breasts taken by counselors attired in state-issued tweeds The children went to state group homes and were taught to mouth the doctrines of state-imposed order It takes a village to raise a child as march they did in erythematic strides Their laptops in their hands The community loves us, this I know For our teachers tell us so We are strong, but I am weak I am what the leader wants What I feel death count for naught We are happy and secure though I feel an angst inside I log on for I must die There is no “I” There is only “we” In formation we doth march Logging on to songs proclaiming paeans to those who feed us everything provided We feed in praise of the community Locusts we are, marching in formation Singing to the one who gives us leaves to eat We bleat like crickets on an August night Mesmerized, we sing in adoration of our leader In the city there are no homes, no families, only dormitories where music blares hybrid chaos black metal and rap gives birth to screaming chaos from the pit There is a sign above the dormitories emboldened red letters saying “always allowed except solitude and celibacy” There are no books, there is no art, there is no song, there is no rest There are no pets, there are no tears, for there is nothing to lament There is no “I” There is “we” People do not talk of life or share their dreams There are no dreams to share I see people come together groveling in sadomasochistic orgies praising the community I walk to the cemetery Where are the tombstones of my parents? The graves are gone A caretaker points to a building; huge it is Like a mausoleum unseen since the times of Pharaoh I walk into the building I see the bodies of my parents and grandparents being sculpted by the body worlds’ artists Everywhere I look I see sculpted corpses Sitting, reading, cooking, dancing in parody of living beings The body world sculptor observes me and says, “This is our memorial. There is no ‘I.’ there is ‘we.’” Outside the sky is dark We are the locusts who have eaten the land Transmuted life into death Wonder has been lost and no more does the need to know prevail Word count: 443 |