C.M. Crockford is a neurodivergent writer and editor.
A National Anthem
If this is the world we buy when the sun comes up,
Nothing is left to pay for.
If these are the jobs up for grabs,
Half of us won’t work.
If you expect the condemned to die without a word,
You go fucking first.
I can’t hear another slogan.
I can’t skip another ad.
I won’t swallow another lie.
I know your works.
You are neither hot nor cold,
And so, I spew you from my mouth.
There is nothing to fix or improve.
Nothing to salvage or repair.
The code was the same.
So go.
Burn the precincts, seize the branches,
Take the cathedrals back, the churches,
Leave nothing for the hand wringers, the scavengers.
Piss on the ashes of the Oval Office if it feels safe.
Topple the archaic statues,
Watch them sink under ice cold lakes.
Go.
Born anew, we’ll kiss the bastards goodbye,
then toss a few cut flowers on their graves.
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