Monster

 

His mouth typecasts tomorrow’s headline. His hair, the shade called faded flowerpot, jokes of implants. His makeup flakes in the floodlights. His fakeups glare from each pore. His portraits are warhol wildernesses, sound byte addresses, ridiculous confesses. His eyes are dollar signs of vegas lines. His stub fingers sign unread laws, break unwritten ones, point nowhere. In earliest memory but a buffoon, vacant lot dealer, a vulgar stealer. Now he’s daily a monster, a mobster, a denier liar. Daily the monster pierces our velcro-clad microsoft screens. Daily the monster crams the space in my phone. His mouth syndicates his polished propagandas. His body bursts bigly from stretch cars, his obscene limousines. His eyes are windows with jail bars. His humourless shoes leave nasty scars. He is the king kong of something something wrong. Subtext of the abject oppress rap song, the stop-press unstoppered 24-hour news off-on, the cycle where all goes rhythms, irretrievable ugly as sin algorithms. Daily his latest loudmouth incites viral spiral. Daily the next scene of his long running serial excites provocation, journalist preoccupation. Daily the monster delivers for daydream believers his monster mash-up, his gnashing of grievance, his lashings of fever, his golden showers of deviance. The monster’s prospects edge every conversation. His mouthpieces cast headlines to the four corners. His reality show is the news feed the news feed needs. His wrestling match lacks all humour, his shoes grunt and shunt. His trials won’t soon be over. His hush money beams loud from the rooftops. His final count interference is an open secret, a threat met, a rumour every hour. His funds dodges are duds and fudges. The monster contorts on my stand-alone computer. The monster grandstands flatly upon my hand-held phone. Delimit the outpour, press delete, shutdown the contraptions. The monster is still there, he doesn’t care. Someone wants us to know. Someone seems to want to know. His vanity is his greatest claim. His lies don’t go away. The monster is obvious in your face, my face, our space. Click him, mute him, he is nothing. His tie is a red stripe. His spittle white stars, a shambling mockery of old glory, his suit blue turning back into black. One day, remember, the monster brittle will die. He will kick up daisies, almost daily. Leaving behind a skyline of desperation, his streets of desolation. His poster image will be a target of remorse. The monster will become human again, a name on a board game, a flutter of horror. His accounts will be found wanting. He didn’t pay the bills. The monster talked faster than a locomotive. The monster could walk off a tall building in a single bound. He fell quicker than a speeding bullet. Untruth, injustice and the mega-maga way for the monster, at the end of the day. The bottom line will be truth.