The Great Game

Mute constellations

trail jellyfish tendrils

of light

through the night's ocean.

They stand sentry, 

composing multiple

exposures of

the great game

they witness.

Spheres of influence

stab blindly

at each other

with Khyber sharp

knives;

unipolar,

triple entente,

cold and hyper-powerful,

this world is their hated toy.

You are their heated tool.

The satellite 

in the subcontinent

skirt was raped

and left to bleed out

in a buffer state. 

In the wake of Molotov

and the dreams of Ribbentrop

the National Front 

opens up and swells.

Traveling salesman priests

sell ordinance 

and racist jokes

to necklace chains

of villages.

The game's pitch 

always tilts 

away 

from the caviar table patron 

to the hopeless client.

So sit with me

in the invertebrate firmament

of the sky

and watch 

our great game,

our true art

and nature

tirelessly play itself

out 

until the last lamp

of our existence

is extinguished

in tides 

of violence

and waste.