The Men in Suits

They look so proud, wouldn’t you say?

Pillars of grey, stone titans standing tall

Over all that they survey, granting sunlight

To those with fealty

And Prometheus’ flames and painful radiance

To those who shield their eyes.

They stand behind their podiums,

Tower over bits of wood,

The microphones, the slumping bodies, lesser suited.

But they are well suited.

Resplendent in their sharp, thin robes

Tight as statue smiles, woven like their narratives.

The world is full of storytellers -

For those that hide behind the jungle walls,

It's the suit that makes their stories true.

Their square shoulders spike from their necks like the barrels of artillery.

Correct, right angles, all soft curves sawn off

By blades, and shells, and gas corrosion

Sprayed over far, far away – second-hand brutality by The Men in Suits.

After all, a hero’s Suit is always spotless,

The hands that sign the orders unstained by iron ink.

The lines behind the grey are colourful. Friendly,

Primary, simple red and blue, colours of hope and family.

The colours of flags.

One long line hangs down from a tight and fearless noose.

Straight and true in its descent,

Until it cowers behind the stone formation

Of the waistcoat, where edicts of our time are stuffed.

The tie remains safe behind the grey – the people’s pride and joy

Must always stay safe behind the grey

Of The Men in Suits.

The press will press against the stony hearts,

Slothfully but wrathfully, and lacking the glut.

And no blood will spurt from these granite casings.

There’s enough of that stuff to go around elsewhere.

The Men in Suits say and it goes. The reasons are clear.

The times are hard, but so is the fist, held adjacent

To the cuff of the fine, formal, sublime and powerful Suit.

And so they rise (don’t they look proud?), anthems blare, siren songs

The cards are dealt, and now it’s off to their Valhalla,

Down below, the bunker of the Gods.

A club to land on innocents’ heads

A spade to dig their graves

A diamond mined for all it’s worth

And a heart of coldest stone.

Look at the screen. Quiet now.

The Men in Suits are addressing their people.

Look at those Suits. No matter the voice of the Man who wears it,

It’s the Suit that speaks: “I am Alpha and Omega.

I am my beginning and your end.

Glory be to my land, and may you cast your gaze on me and cheer.”

Never trust the Men in Suits.

The stone robes hide their hollow smiles,

See how hopeful colours choke in prideful grips of grey,

And never shield your eyes, or else be

turned to rubble

On which the Men in Suits may step.