There is a portrait of Kim Jong Il
(and his father)
Which is brightly lit in the abandoned dark of dawn
In Pyongyang.
All who can leave are long gone,
All who can dream are sleeping.
All who are awake are still, very still
They wait (for the appointed hour).

The portraits of tyrants are bright in dark countries
The tombs of tyrants are dark in bright countries

I am not sure which is more dangerous:
Memory, or forgetfulness.

We will not speak of a nation with Stockholm Syndrome

It would be in poor taste

We will not speak of their dutiful eulogies
(or their clenched jaws)
We will not speak of decay and rot, nor blackouts of any sort,
(whether by the bottle, the pen, or the powerplant)
Nor star chambers, nor brain drain
Nor the ways in which tyranny is never the crucible
Of art (or true love) or right reason.

It would be in poor taste

And the family is always watching.


We can instead speak of how the cherry blossoms
Never knew his name
We can instead speak of how the propagandists
Never wrote lullabyes
We can instead speak of Ozymandias
And the inexorability of time and change
Because time is change
Hope, rage, revolution, intention, these are only accellerants
(hurry up please)
In the end it is simple
(it’s time)

And it will be

(and it will be)


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