DRONE

DRONE

On and on, the motherfucker

with the initials
somewhere near his name—

just goes on and on.

If I were smart,

or wise,

or cute,

or not ready

to slit my damned wrists—

I wouldn’t waste anything

especially

my too damned short time

listening to some lying killer

drone on about how everything

will be alright.

I know it won’t,

we’re fucked,

we’ve been fucked,

the future holds

more fucking for us.

No god damned orgasm though,

there never is with a rape.

Only an ejaculate that

stings,

steals,

strips the dignity

of the raped.

*

Silently it flies

at thirty thousand feet,
cameras are the eyes in the sky

for the guardian

of all that is righteous, good.

Hand on the stick,
finger the trigger
the Hellfire flies
aaannnnd—HIT!

Another fucking terrorist,
a school dance,
a wedding party

small ring bearers

gone,

dusted,

turned to ash

from a world away,

a planet where the wealth fat is found

eating the saturated contrails of jets,

jalopy’s,

missiles,

and

drones.  

Fucking remote controlled Reaper

blue light special beacon

bought at full retail,

sent to kill usthem

who do not swear allegiance

to the hand on the stick

finger on trigger,

Hellfire at the everready

that just keeps

droning

and

droning

and

droning…

our way to

the cooked baked burnt fossilized paradise.

*

The hives of them

that keep us alive are dying.
There the drones live

in service to their monarch,

no silly not a butterfly,

a queen. She dies too.

We think we know best
we install a replacement royal

to lead a near dead nation.
Keep the hive alive

take its honey

Orkin it

with pesticide—suicide.

All but the dead know, few care.

Scared of being stung by a friendly force.

Send a hellfire in. War is hell as is fear.

Drones give her majesty

the juice of life,

the stuff of royalty,

paltry buggy pleasures

found in roles long evolved.

Workers land on the pretty pollen filled bud,

dum de dum dum, just doing a job,

working,

working,

working,

Droning the way through the day.
Waiting to get home to shit some hive honey.
Tracking,
tracking,
tracking

Death,

wings,

hair,

mandibles

burning with death—
does the worker know?
Does the drone know?
They are the silent assassins?
The killer of queens,
the genocide bringer,

the murderer of its reason for living?

Do we?
care?

*

Fuck me to boredom,
blow me to burned up bits,
picture me

Death for the defenseless.
drone on.

No one listens

to explosions
not close in

while silence,

kills

the quiet life droning.

© M Durfee

12/20/16