Talking Heads
Like ravens gathering over yesterday's
fresh road kill, talking heads chatter
nonsensically ad nauseum. They dine
on the carrion of dead souls, pick clean
the bones of putrid flesh with special glee.
Cocksure, pompous, they crow shallow words
in chorus-mimes of each other's thoughts, words
and deeds. One is all, all is one. Perfect clones.
Once a victim is devoured, the birds move on
seeking another, an unsullied idealist, a person
of principle ready to die for the cause. Preen
their bloody feathers waiting for a train wreck.
Weeble heads bobbing in the Impala's window.
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