Words, words, words. Sometimes they end up rhyming. For your delectation, here's a 255 word offering from book 1.
COOKS AND BOOKS
Over-ground or under, they're insidiously nearer.
Words, just as with a sandstorm, in its own good time, what is hidden, do come into view and clearer.
Rip up trees and ruin this earth’s soil. Dig, dig, dig for oil. Crack the whip. The people’s sweat drips.
Drizzle sizzle, white to brown, mouths stuffed with dollars and pounds, it’s going to be quite a pickle.
Tap code into phone for a cover, this greed will never be over.
The Behemoth’s behind the curtain. He knows his hands hold power, for certain.
In front of him is a big old desk stained with lies, no metal trays, it’s all been cleared away.
Wide, flabby, firm, lean or squeaky clean, the posteriors plonked on the chairs, are appropriately covered, suited, and maintain straight postured facades.
‘What manifesto? Everything dealt is shown here. Take a look at the card.’
Of course he cares because I care, and you care because he cares, and I care for you and you care for breeding and feeding.
Knock, knock.
Enter if you dare.
He, she, everyone take deep breaths for bravery and life. It’s still free, isn’t it, this air?
‘Please Sir, the people are poor, they’re asking for more.’
‘The devil drives,’ whispers the Behemoth making another credit entry into a book as the cook in the kitchen starves.
Nodding, case held high, clean face with matching tie, the nominated official pronounces, ‘It’s the previous government’s fault,’ as another portion of the planet is sacrificed just to allow business to thrive.
The End
Imagine a really different type of story to the types we know already, where the words 'The End' could apply to politics. What would the ending to it be?
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