They stand stiffly before his milky contrail
thought of tittering, a fiction, flying across an evening sky
once a giggle mash, now a distant funerary memory.
Imagine it, a flounder flopping in deadly malodorous silence.
Truth rips at his empty stomach,
cap in hand head bowed to the generals bereft of humor.
They tighten their lips misogynistically against their gums
spare their nostrils from the fetid, breathless air the others expel
aghast at the intrusion.
A vanquished sky rests above the congregation, godless
a meteor shower sparkles against a gathering storm
unearthly compilation of earth’s noxious gases
set in a Mona Lisa’s smile blank of unreality.
Hear the hound baying mystified by the flatulence he has produced.
She peeks in a no-no response
and notes the little bristled mustache twitching.
A mist settles over the gathering plaza and they are counted
blanketing them in their decay
See the black-booted marauder of sturm and drang
dance a jig to their fear.
He imagines a world he can sweep under his rug,
a world puffed into a soft mound upon which he stands
to jackboot them into oblivion.
Taste the bile his stomach gurgles into a mash
an eructation demanding exit.
He no longer squelches his power.
He fans the offensive air with the white hanky
because he could.