The 3 poets of the revolution, and the aftermath of the not so glorious things that followed it.

Don Rilobago was the first one,
The one we got to know and love,
Because of CNN and FOX and Al Jazeera,
Before we killed them all,
Those pesky journalist bastards,
Those slaves of the old and obsolete system,
Who gave us so much entertainment,
And never got anything in return,
Except big cash, some respect perhoops and,
In the end,
The removal of their guts,
And hooks in their asses and bullets in their brains,
If they were lucky.

We had come to know the Don, the first one,
For characteristically wielding his mighty axe,
Which he held to be a pen,
Which it really wasn’t,
Since pens are perhaps able to cause nasty wounds,
Limited, but not exclusive, by writing with them,
But surely can’t sever heads,
Not really they can’t,
Though of this we are not really sure.

Allegedly the Don was sitting,
On his couch, and holding on to the misses,
It was one misty November evening,
In the year 2000 and seven,
Snug and cozy and all that shit,
Feeling nothing but retarded and obese,
When disaster snuck in,
The gardener planted in his cortex,
The seeds of this so called revolution,
Malcontentestism, le mal du siècle,
Ennui and a tad of great great anger,
And they settled firmly in his head,
Causing his eyeballs to slightly pop,
Making him look like a lunatic or a beaver,
He hollered:
“No more, this plastic life,
Go get my weapon, wife!”
He yelled some more and soon left,
To be next seen again,
On the barricades,
Enraged, entranced and tearing it all down,
Not much unlike a rabid clown,
But crying.

Messieur Le Freug was the next,
The Frenchman,
Denouncing country and humanism,
Which really left him nothing,
But violence.
We loved him,
For the unholy, uncompromising, herolike bombing,
Of all things holy in the sacred congregation of
Mcdonaldism, Applianity and Nikesneakery,
Making heads and bodies explode as he trod forth,
He pointed out to his brethren,
Revolutionary scum of impure breeding:
“No one is to be regarded as innocent,
As long as they are stuffing their faces, still,
Breathing and decorating their bodies,
with the object fetishes, the goddaring symbols,
Of a criminal and unhappily crumbling system,
Let us annihilate them all, without shedding
Redundant and wasteful tears,
Salt water better spent,
On the inside of our heads,
Better yet,
Let us kill them all, smiling!”
So kaboom!
Went the so called innocent,
Losing their organs in the process,
Of exploding and combusting,
But not to worry,
For a just cause they fought.
They even had a slogan,
But it soon got lost, unfortunately.

The third one (of the poets) yelled:
“Hang them by their necks,
Lynch their children and rape their wives!”
Him, awoken in bloodlust, our last scribe and murderer,
The most wretched one of the mighty three,
In this revolution that came from nothingness
And ended nowhere,
We cannot even name,
For centuries to come,
Grand and magnificent his legacy will be,
And of extremely poor esthetics.

Very swiftly he died,
In a storm of stabs and curses,
Squashed and squeezed,
Like a rather dangerous dung beetle.

On his grave they wrote, in simple English,
“He sure killed a lot of people,
For the cause,
And achieved nothing,
Which is just as much as any of us,
But at least he tried.”
This is what beauty has come to,
A grim and compact and primitive thing,
They finally killed that ugly freak,
Called postmodernism,
Though some deny it.

Now in this world without brands, enterprises or banks,
Nor hope and love, nor security and things like that,
I cannot remember sleeping well for one single night,
Even when it has been fifteen years,
(Has it? Who still has the courage to keep track of these things?)
But oh well, in the past we all paid a little for progress,
Or so we thought, because the truth was hidden,
And it turned we hadn’t progressed at all,
Glorious, however, was our self-deception.
Now,
The criminally insane have finally come out of their closets,
No more are they wearing banker suits,
And we are free, it is true, although,
The truth we have gained seems limp,
In this arid wasteland, in the abyss of all of our past ventures,
Here, we failed in all our endeavors,
We have lost nearly everything,
Not because we fought,
But because we fought too late,
And hopelessly.