Circus Truth
The television pukes in every corner bar,
anchormen with porcelain teeth,
their jaws, clacking wind-up dolls,
selling fear like popcorn at the carnival.
You don’t pick your truth anymore—
it’s handed to you, pre-chewed,
a soggy cigarette butt that’s passed around the alley and back.
The left bleeds red ink,
the right bleeds black bile,
and the middle—
there is no middle,
just a beige carpet soaked with the bloody chunder of yesterday’s spin cycle.
Every headline is a slot machine:
pull the lever,
watch the cherries line up to spell
WAR, ASSASSINATION, PANIC, OUTRAGE, WOKE, UAP’S, THE SIMULATION.
They give you “choice”
like a prison cafeteria—
mystery meat or a misery meet with sauce.
And you nod,
mouth full of microwaved narrative,
because it’s all as good as plastic and BPA going down.
The anchors smile,
the podcasters scream,
the Tik-Tokers beg to be put back in lockers.
The news ticker scrolls like scripture,
and the gospel is always the same:
stay tuned, stay scared,
stay stupid enough to buy what they’re selling.
Meanwhile the truth—
the real thing—
squeezes into a clown suit,
red nose, floppy shoes,
juggling grenades for clicks.
The crowd boos,
but keeps buying tickets.
That’s the joke, kid:
truth doesn’t matter—
the circus sells out anyway.
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