Where Democracy Wears Adult Diapers

When men

older than a democracy's independence

dictate its way of being —

it’s as much a democracy

as godmen are rational

They walk the corridors of power and privilege

selling nostalgia like viagra

as the pollution of a population with their questionable IQs scream and moan

their penises of intellects lubed in the glory of a past that never was

And as these wrinkly, stinking farts

sell sepia-toned memories for votes,

the past becomes the present,

and the present freezes on its feet —

too mortified of what it might find

in the name of future

The vigour and youth of a nation,

strapped to a wheelchair,

pushed by geriatric knees

and an arthritis-ridden spine

disguised as governance

Once upon a time —

a couple of thousand years ago —

men that age would walk into forests,

renounce power,

seek silence,

and wither into irrelevance

like fallen leaves

Now they cling to microphones

like life support machines,

chant the same three slogans

in eighteen different languages

with the same old hatred

dressed in newer narratives

If you believe

evolution only walks forward —

you’re confusing biology

for democratic gimmickry

How else do you explain a country

where the past isn’t dead —

it’s on payroll

And the future?

The future is stuck in traffic,

contemplating suicide would be a quicker death, or speaking truth to power