Political Poetry

“Of course her poetry is political,” said the critic, “What else is there left to any of us these days.” I was impressed by the critic’s red skirt-suit and enormous head. She was a strong woman with lots of supporters and really good arguments.

”What is there left to any WOMAN these days,” said the supporter. “Being a woman is much harder than being a man or a seringoin.” The supporter was also pretty impressive, with beautiful hands and a beautiful mind.

”But let us not forget the rhyming scheme,” said the independent professor. He was not part of any university, but supported by masses of people. He used to be a goat but now his body was a series of shimmering silvery rings. He wore a sweater vest.

”Well, what is the tally, Mr. Presenter?” said the critic. I snapped out of my reverie.

”Uhm, of course. The tally is seven, five, one, one, five, twenty-one."

"Good show,” exclaimed the professor.

”Indeed,” said the critic.

”Skewed,” said the supporter.

”But, uhm,” I said, “Our viewers have not spoken yet.” We all looked towards the electron brain, waiting for its verdict. It came printed in large cuneiform. It was the number 77, which could also be interpreted as a repast.

”And, uhm,” I said, “And so, the audiences have spoken. Once again, the voice of the people allows it. All hail the poet."

"All hail,” the guests repeated in unison.

”Aaaaaaaaaaaand, we’re off the air,” said the director.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk