Rough rough rough rough rough rough draft
There's still a lot of information on American economic policy and those who benefit/feed off it that I'm going to incorporate into this poem, but as it stands here's the skeleton if it.
Her name is Mystery
232 years old and very precious to me
Although in these times of judgment
I would be condemned for my allegiances.
America. This day’s Babylon,
Swathed in red and purple silks she straddles a seven headed beast
who will rise from the abyss and wage a war of destruction upon all the nations of this world.
She offers a chalice brimming with all the fornications of all the kings who welcomed her immorality.
And this world, tired of waiting for the second coming of Christ
chose these Revelations. The last eight years have been our judgment day.
All the earth screaming damnation,
curses that do not come from God, but from those who benefit from her trade.
The merchants, the profiteers, all who clamor to cast her naked unto the sands
and stand paramount in their virtue,
while their lips drip the stain of drinking from her chalice
screaming “Whore! Whore! May you burn for your lascivious ways,
your damning temptations!”
Two kings, Brian Mulroney of Canada and Carlos Salinas de Gortari of Mexico,
joined their people with the Whore
in the North American Free Trade Agreement
and now all toast with their martini glasses overflowing with Iraqi blood
bandying for industry contracts among the sand.
And it is the industry of Canada that provides the Great Harlot
with her mount that rises into war,
what once was the Beast becomes armored personnel vehicles
contracting in nearly exclusive supply to the Babylonian military.
The United Nations sucks fornication from her golden cup
as one fourth of their funding comes from just America,
all one hundred and ninety two seats in the great hall of countries
cry “Whore! Whore!” for her bloody ways
yet suffer China’s rape of Tibet,
Sudan’s rape of Darfur,
Rwanda’s devouring of her own people,
All these kings of Earth grown fat on her trade and their own complacency
give platitudes that someone should do something,
or live in fear and misdirection like my own people.
We are not innocent,
my only conviction here is that nobody is,
that this is not the hour of revelations
Casting judgment is reserved from those who do not share her sins
For the Mother of Harlots is still a Mother
and us, her sons and daughters, are torn asunder
by love and lies and loyalties
as we ride our own seven headed deadlies
down roads paved with intentions we don’t even know the name of anymore.
Now we rock ourselves to sleep wrapped in red and purple silks
that no longer protect our burning flesh
watching the approach of nuclear vultures that herald the message
that all empires are heir to the destruction of the one before it.
Please, cast her not unto the sands
she will fall all the same,
successor to the fall of Rome, the British Empire, the Soviet Union.
She will fall naked and defeated and all those who lived sensuously with her,
the nations that have drunk the wine of passion with her,
the kings who committed fornication with her,
all will secretly weep
while crowing their moral superiority
standing a distance away from the smoke of her burning
for fear of her torment.
But the sands have a way of shifting constantly,
and the children of the rising superpowers, the next heirs,
will be bathed in the sweat of prostitutes and sung to sleep
by vultures sweeping overhead
and the whole world will weep as the Whore of Babylon
rises to fall again.
Her name is Mystery
232 years old and very precious to me
Although in these times of judgment
I would be condemned for my allegiances.
America. This day’s Babylon,
Swathed in red and purple silks she straddles a seven headed beast
who will rise from the abyss and wage a war of destruction upon all the nations of this world.
She offers a chalice brimming with all the fornications of all the kings who welcomed her immorality.
And this world, tired of waiting for the second coming of Christ
chose these Revelations. The last eight years have been our judgment day.
All the earth screaming damnation,
curses that do not come from God, but from those who benefit from her trade.
The merchants, the profiteers, all who clamor to cast her naked unto the sands
and stand paramount in their virtue,
while their lips drip the stain of drinking from her chalice
screaming “Whore! Whore! May you burn for your lascivious ways,
your damning temptations!”
Two kings, Brian Mulroney of Canada and Carlos Salinas de Gortari of Mexico,
joined their people with the Whore
in the North American Free Trade Agreement
and now all toast with their martini glasses overflowing with Iraqi blood
bandying for industry contracts among the sand.
And it is the industry of Canada that provides the Great Harlot
with her mount that rises into war,
what once was the Beast becomes armored personnel vehicles
contracting in nearly exclusive supply to the Babylonian military.
The United Nations sucks fornication from her golden cup
as one fourth of their funding comes from just America,
all one hundred and ninety two seats in the great hall of countries
cry “Whore! Whore!” for her bloody ways
yet suffer China’s rape of Tibet,
Sudan’s rape of Darfur,
Rwanda’s devouring of her own people,
All these kings of Earth grown fat on her trade and their own complacency
give platitudes that someone should do something,
or live in fear and misdirection like my own people.
We are not innocent,
my only conviction here is that nobody is,
that this is not the hour of revelations
Casting judgment is reserved from those who do not share her sins
For the Mother of Harlots is still a Mother
and us, her sons and daughters, are torn asunder
by love and lies and loyalties
as we ride our own seven headed deadlies
down roads paved with intentions we don’t even know the name of anymore.
Now we rock ourselves to sleep wrapped in red and purple silks
that no longer protect our burning flesh
watching the approach of nuclear vultures that herald the message
that all empires are heir to the destruction of the one before it.
Please, cast her not unto the sands
she will fall all the same,
successor to the fall of Rome, the British Empire, the Soviet Union.
She will fall naked and defeated and all those who lived sensuously with her,
the nations that have drunk the wine of passion with her,
the kings who committed fornication with her,
all will secretly weep
while crowing their moral superiority
standing a distance away from the smoke of her burning
for fear of her torment.
But the sands have a way of shifting constantly,
and the children of the rising superpowers, the next heirs,
will be bathed in the sweat of prostitutes and sung to sleep
by vultures sweeping overhead
and the whole world will weep as the Whore of Babylon
rises to fall again.