It should smell sweet

We are hearing the spin,

the words of meaning with

no meaning, the emptiness

that seems so full, the bullshit

flung like dry old used dung

that fertilises the same fossil

patch of ground that it always

has, and the posturing and shitting

like bulls in a paddock–men of action,

one, two, three–and we like fools believe

the lies and accept the meagre crumbs

that are thrown our way and the clever

shifting of ground to strange places that

are not where we should be, but

we are there anyway on this day

that started with the wise moon

and then the cheering sun rising,

till both were covered in doomy clouds

and the day darkened till we could

not see where we are, not see faces,

not even what we have done, as the

smell of acrid bullshit rises across this

ancient and beauteous land and

we are told it should smell sweet.