Orwell’s State spied on its citizens from a screen
in every room. The TV had to be on, the woman
or man within sight of its Panopticon, within ear
of its newspeak. Every day, uniform-clad, they
chanted slogans together, making the lies resonate.
Poor bastards, I thought, not prescient. Today,
we have screens in every corner of every room,
carrying them with us, letting the pseudo enter us
like Bilharzia parasites as we submerge ourselves
in their contaminated flow. Like a schistosome,
our new fearsome leader, our own Caligula, plants
hooks in our guts, spills his clotting worms.
Whack at his hydra-head, and he has you publicly
flayed, makes you eat your own tongue.
As his goons work you over, the earth itself,
stripped and disfigured, mirrors your suffering.
Where is our Praetorian Guard, our Praziquantel?
Bio: Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her political poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.