He lives happy on the top of the ivory tower
With his eight-digit salary and five-star penthouse
Drinking his daily wine served by his butler
Labelled the hell he cares not, as long as it’s expensive.
He sits on his leather recliner, and indulges in his communion
Of Tiger Wood’s golf scores and stock market numbers
Glittering like the saliva he sputters on his special edition smartphone
Like the numbers flowing through and fro on its speakers.
His wife is fed and clad and dressed in designer stuff,
Like his four other mistresses who open their legs to handle his gold.
Their sons and daughters don’t register to him at all,
As long as they are paid to keep him out of his sight.
It is progress, progress, the way he regresses,
Back to the child his parents addresses,
“I want this, I want that, I want this, I want that,”
“So here you go you stupid brat.”
“Take all our pension, take all that crap,
While we leave you in our eternal nap.”
He always takes for granted, the way he is deluded,
Walking like the king of kings, only of those narrowminded.
In his glorious self-interest, he brought himself the best,
Placed the companies and countries he touches to the test,
Currently unaware of the growing unrest,
Or that sniper bullet hitting him through the chest.
When the Daily Prompt decided to challenge all my beautiful plans of triumphing in the pingback list and shared this:
When you look back at your blog on January 2, 2015, what would you like to see?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us PROGRESS.
I just want to roll in the mud, throw in a fit, and bark in a snarky bit of wit like this:
I hate the idea of progress. It’s overrated.
That is from Arthur Dent, from his wholly remarkable adventures with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, with all due condolences to its author, Douglas Adams, who is now enjoying a perpetual meal in Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of Time. It came forth as one of Arthur’s defenses as the bulldozers prepared to sweep through his home in the country village of proddy Cottington.
Yes, I feel like Arthur Dent as he is utterly violated by the bureaucracy of Britain and the universe. How dare the prompts violate my routine, from which all of my routine content will originate? But then again, along with the destruction of everything I so long for now comes a series of unimaginable adventures, immortalized through a future set of horrible poems, horrible character sketches, and horrible fiction pieces.
So the question is, do I do the ebook prompts, or do I do the WordPress daily prompts?
Well, why not do both? It’s a good change after all. At least I get to choose progress over that awful January 3 prompt that goes like this:
What’s the 11th item on your bucket list?
Yes, a bloody bucket. A horrible fancy tradition that in my mind I now filled with the eleventh New Year dinner my overfed stomach failed to digest, which is a fiction as much as this list. A putrid bucket I so want to kick over the faces of these awful set of circumstances that I currently face.
I guess it’s off to waiting for the WordPress prompts to appear. I’m quite certain (or quite hoping) that the bucket list I so want to kick will appear later on, but when I’m not sure. So there you have it, my replacement for the January 3 prompt in the wholly remarkable ebook WordPress released.
Stay tuned for more fits.
Today’s featured image citation comes from this link.