Propagandhi

As so many practiced diplomats,
so too your vaunted laureates,
whose access to the higher rungs of the cultural priesthood
is hinged upon their flair for sophistry.
Well, I vote you the best-equipped to shrink from speech
that might suggest any thoughts your key target-market
might not have already signed-off on and ratified.
And I vote you most likely to clutter your language
with so much deadwood that no amount of pruning will
reveal your intensive, protracted campaign of saying
nothing at all. Your daydreams of black tie affairs
at Rideau Hall. Your acceptance speech.
Your dramatic pause. Don't forget to thank those bitter
ex-musician cum embedded rock-journalists frantically
applauding the latest artist-formerly-known-as iconoclast,
giddy from the fumes of a fresh defection,
moping to the maudlin beat of a hat rack rhythm section,
a tacit understanding of mutual non-aggression enjoyed
by every nauseating do-nothing functionary.
Really, it's not so much the incessant ruse of assigning
profound meaning to the meaningless curios you decorate
your sets with in your extraordinarily mundane fictions.
It's the (colossal) arrogance of the subtext: the province
of human affairs is a field best left to dilettantes
with an extraordinary gift for the feigning of paralysis.
For saying nothing at all.
For daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall.
An acceptance speech. Sustained applause.