It is like a clenched fist, this mind

of mine, wanting to beat someone

with these ideas of anger and, could

I say, mistrust, as I watch men and

women in dark suits, elected on our

behalf, develop snouts like wild

slavering pigs at some trough that

seems to be an artifice without ends

and deep, and filled with goodies, that

bring on salivation, and salvation as

the nurturing money makes their snouts

quiver, and their false smiles widen

like Scrooge McDuck’s beak, as he used

to swim in his loose change, his little

twitching tail leaving a gentle track of

his passage through his millions. It seems

almost unnoticeable, the passage from

politician, minister of the crown, to an

executive position on some committee

made up of mates and cronies, where

sounds of chomping combine with the

crunching of virtual folded stuff that is

transferred from the big trough to a less

obtrusive one, hidden in the shadows of

public affairs, out of sight, out of mind,

where the goodies flow just as well

as they bobbed along in the public sphere.

It is convenient that it all tastes the same

and it still provides the same level of

satiation. Oh I would love to get the

pig prod into action and herd these fat

sows and bores along the slippery wet

concrete walkway en route to the place

where the end is designated as humane

by the minister of agriculture and their

associated swillers, and deny them a

final suck into that which has given them

much more pleasure, than fulfilling the

role for which they were originally bred

and chosen. These long snouted beasts

have the same presumptive airs as the

Houyhnhnms which looked down on

the Yahoos, and Dean Swift got it right,

even though those fictional creatures

could not recognize their own reflections,

the reality denied them by their watery

eyes, they were recognizable to those

who watched them, clothed or otherwise,

from outside the trough hidden by wide

arses, all tails a twitching in exultation.