Spike

Nobody votes for Mister Faceless
but his phone calls are worth a billion votes.
Kissinger and Nixon were among his finest servants.
He laughs at the anguished singing
of billionaire rock stars
crying out for peace and death to poverty,
for they are unwitting members of his club.
Faceless can’t remember a time
when he preferred making love to his wife
to molesting the face of Benjamin Franklin
on a one hundred dollar bill.

Generosity is a mental illness
in the mind of Mister Faceless.
Petitions sway him no more
than the screams of bomb orphaned children.
The only way to beat him is to be him,
claims his spit as it drips
from a little boy reduced to a torso.
He was an example to others
who staunchly refused to provide information
they didn’t have.

Faceless is booked in for a nightmare
with a man in a lizard skin mask.
His gaze is as penetrating as medical drill bits.
Imprinted upon his features
is every skerrick of menace and revulsion
since the sunrise of civilization.

An anaesthetist strike is relaxation therapy
compared to such attention Spike.

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