Six O'Clock

'I'm for sale, '
The literary whores speak,
Words drip as tainted honey
Off cloven tongues.

But is it really?

Creative minds work
Acts of god
Pulled from silver linings
Of cloud and storm
Through the journalistic
Cotton gin...

And it's all yours...
For a price.
Blood dripping through
Mangled soulless teeth,

Children aching and alone,
Your daily fix of misery,
Shock and horror-
Pay per view
Worship of the
One eyed god
And the demons behind it.

Pay with your soul,
Charge it to your mind,
Write a check for your conscience.
All is for sale,
Your hope, your decency, your trust.

'I'm for sale, ' they cry,
'Take my mother,
My judgement,
Trade my respect! '
Coughing tuberculosis traced
Sputem of death.

All is green...
And red, and black.
Red with the life
Of innocents,
Black with a prose plague.

Place your head
On the chopping block,
Come one, come all...
Great fun to be had
As that last piece of goodness
Shrivels as a raisin in
Nuclear winter.

'We are for sale, ' they beg,
As they strip your sanity,
Husk your kernel of pride,
And eat your virile youth.

Welcome to the six o'clock news.
We are for sale.

by Tsani Jones

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