The LoTPoS Saves Earth, Again

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The Lords of This Part of Space, the LoTPoS, decided it was past high time to intervene on Earth before its humans ruined it.
‘Irrevocably,’ said the Clerk of Fate.
‘Forever,’ added the Recorder of Quantum.
‘Right,’ said the Keeper of Debits. ‘I have a plan.’
The other Lords listened. Nothing else had worked and something very different and quick was needed.
‘We will arrange,’ the KoD continued, ‘for proper clothing. It will change the way humans see their leaders. Change their views of who they follow and the world will become a better place. Maybe even survive.’
‘Subtle,’ said the CoF.
‘Details?’ enquired the RoQ.
The KoD waved and holograms of all Earth’s human leaders appeared. ‘By “arrange” I mean of course “make happen”. Humans recognise their firemen and their judges by the costumes those persons wear. They associate their leaders with a certain way of dressing. Their leaders dress like rich, powerful, well-groomed, well-coiffed models of efficiency and success. We are going to change that.’
The RoQ was getting antsy. ‘How?’
‘The RoQ means what will we get them to wear instead,’ said the CoF.
‘Like this,’ said the KoD. The holograms of all the current world leaders blurred. When they came back into focus their suits, hats, ties and jewels had all been replaced.
‘I like it!’ said the CoF.
‘Might work,’ agreed the RoF.
‘It’s the only way leaders, and candidates for leadership jobs, will be able to dress,’ said the KoD.
The assembled LoTPoS looked at the holograms. All the leaders stood barefooted and bareheaded. They wore identical grey short-sleeved sweatshirts and identical grey drawstring shorts.
The assembled LoTPoS laughed, and said, ‘Let it be done.’

Govt3

Gunned Down

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The murderer uses evil to kill people.
What’s that look like, that thing ‘evil’ – how’s it work?
Is it an idea, or a death ray? Is it a curse?
Oh, I see. You don’t mean evil is a thing
(I wonder whether you mean anything)
but you’ll be damned before you let on that you know
that what the murderer killed with was a gun.

No Squirrels in Here This Morning

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’There are squirrels…’ I began. The muse said, ‘Stop with the squirrels.’
I erased what I had written. I said, ‘Now what?’
No answer. The muse whistled. Aeons passed
in review. Real squirrels outside ran up a real tree.
The muse reclined, declining a tray of verbs.
‘Don’t go fancy,’ the muse said. ‘I wasn’t.’ Muse said, ‘Were.’
‘Live in the moment,’ the muse said. ‘Forget fear.
You make yourself sick worrying what might happen.’
‘Don’t,’ I answered. ‘Often,’ said the muse.
‘Write down exactly what it is you feel.’
‘I don’t feel,’ I said. The muse looked at me: ‘Won’t.’
The window on the forest side of the room
blew open, inward. Papers flew and fell.
‘There goes my work’ I said. The muse said, ‘Swell.’

Where Angles Hesitate

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There are squirrels the size of similes. Rats pose as metaphors.
A gerbil is being a gerund. Slant rhymes recline in jars.
On the never edge of everywhere mute phonemes ply the trade
of participles who have got a royal flush in spades.

The sun comes up the way it must in legendary tales.
Storms blow away the wind itself and adverbs tally pails
of overindulgent modifiers Hemingway would hate.
The full stops start a race across where angles hesitate.

Ellipsisically in threes they trot. Alone they cannot fend
off question marks like this that marks what surely is the end?

A Dilly of a Pesadilla

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The squirrels in this bird nest are marginalising the snakes.
We measure the nest. It must have been a very big bird.
We fashion a podium determined to do what it takes.
We clamour for silence in a fey futile wish to be heard.

The snakes glisten. They listen, we think, with their darting forked tongues.
The squirrels chatter on, scatter off, commandeer the dry places.
The water wraiths rise and make light of our ladder’s low rungs.
The serpentine similes formed by our moistening boot laces

give signals we sapiens and serpents and squirrels are in deep
in this nocturnal nonsense disturbing what should be our sleep.