MR ALBERTA WEEPS FOR THE UCP
Who weeps for the mewling antagonists to circumstance? Who weeps for the captains of titanic debt? Who weeps for the sinking? Who weeps for the flailing? For the incompetent? For the aggravated?
Who weeps for the cavalcade of kamikaze patsies and back room petrosexual bimbos and himbos who spoke lusty orphan sonnets in their crusted moral folds? Who weeps for the breathy zealots with uncalloused hands? Who weeps for the overpaid twitterati’s public rumbles gone googly eyed by blue light?
Who weeps for bronze colonizer likenesses? Who weeps for soapbox eulogies on metal mannequins during the autumn of mass death?
Who weeps for private practice? Who weeps for the grumpy boy, shoulder chipped at birth, unforgiving of his own delivery? Who weeps for the hidden troll’s hidey hole and her libertarian pandemic experiments? Who weeps for the fiscal mismanagers and their moony-eyed grift?
Who weeps for the saviour from the old eastern hand of Harper to deliver a province from unrepentant centrism? Who weeps for the harbinger of lopsided austerity? Who weeps for the pinkish cherub with mutton jowls rolling in gasoline gutter run off in unfeathered wings? Who weeps for Jason Kenney?
Why, Mr. Alberta. Mr. Alberta weeps.
So come, child, baptize yourself in the salty tears of Mr. Alberta and may the future drain from your ass like after-coffee diarrhea. Put your ear to ground and let the sobs of Mr. Alberta slough your dead dusty skin about in retrograde shake and bake. Suck the wet air from Mr. Alberta’s hummingbird breath and let your heart moan and mumble. Mr. Alberta weeping aspect, unconvincing prairie scarecrow, rancid hay torso topped with an October grimace. Give Mr. Alberta a kiss in the rattling wind and know passion’s inconsequence. Watch Mr. Alberta shuffle for soil shotgun flocks sullying the horizon like locusts. Watch Mr. Alberta draw blackened blood through a curly straw. Look at Mr. Alberta’s hat and matching belt buckle. Wake up in the morning and look long into mirrored canvas eyes, you are Mr. Alberta. On the couch a family of Mr. Albertas’ lounges’s languid stretches crest stained couch cushions. Floral patterns are on the wall. Wilting petals and brittle twigs in a clenched fist. Egg yolk sunset bubbles about the perimeter, curdled breakfast for faded champions. Fin.
September 14, 2020. 30'x40', acrylic on canvas