Bend sinister, see old friends united there,
in protest, picket-preaching, out-of-practice
ageing hipsters, culture workers, critics,
committed commissars and camp followers,
associating with the innocent,
while, gathered in the other gated camp,
renaissance individuals keep watch
for dual standards, collecting anecdata
as evidence against their former allies.
Blame is blasphemy; calumny's a challenge.
Two gilt-edged streams of bitter comment-haters
piss in a political depression.
And watching over both their houses,
we see Juno Moneta, right supreme,
wave her all-too-visible, ring-dripping hand,
divide and conquer, multiply and prevail,
products and quotas, either way you win
according to the logic of the square.
They make a desert and call it global warming,
irrigated by denial, a Bedouin spring,
a spiral looking neither left nor right,
descending in a long-hot-summer swelter,
through tiers of tragic human unawareness,
as no one chose to hear the herald.