Yet another day 1
1Wrought by a tenuous tale
and wishful tomorrows
he steals echoes to enforce distance
and motions to the end
of trials and juries reeking of creed.
Walking down the aisle
he sees no promise to halt the day,
no waterbed with lilies in light,
no silence, no beginning,
nothing more, nothing less.
He lowers his head with rainbows,
with the flood of fleeting stars
dragging whole cities into despair.
He bleeds in markets
where men of dust congregate.
He shuts the blinds of tomorrow,
leans on pipes of confrontation,
disturbs peace at all hours.
He will ask you to breathe gasoline
when his engine fails to perform miracles.
Between the mercury speed of windows,
the desire to pursue the other,
he dances to the sound of moonshine.
He lectures men of straw
and finds peace in a single machine.
He is the death of good taste,
the dark dying that feeds fear
with gory words and murky thoughts.
No quirky princess lurks
where there is no imagined god
to squeeze in public,
where there is no easy praise,
no gloating smirk to unfold,
no story, no moral, just a bone.
He is the death of all good taste.
He is the bad taste of war
that rolls like dead dogs in your mouth,
the suffering you'd rather forget,
the dead you've left behind,
the casualties you accept
in the name of a garden.
He is the bad taste of war
that fills you with disgust.
The tall wind blows a white religion
across oil wells and digital money.
There is a white snake
slithering in peace talks
where guns are hidden at all times.
White doctors are killed
for ending an almost
by supporters of a book.
He does not support these lines:
Have a mind of your own!
... if you do not dance.
This is the subversive side
of the written word,
this is rebellion, revolution,
contraception and free speech.
This is in spite of God,
the Ik Onkar
Allah, Krishna or Buddha.
"Damn all you imbeciles,"
he thinks as night approaches,
"leaving the count of killing
to others, to the elected ones,
conveniently burdened
with graves, state and the shadows
left behind."
The tabla meets the lute
in a night of bright moonshine,
the djembe will surely play
to the strings of a saz,
the night of all colors.
No prejudice shall burden
the expression of this day,
no hailed deity of invention
can ever claim importance
to what goes on,
that where you inhabit.
So the young ones died
in steep alleys of the favela,
the white drug, neatly folded in envelops,
still in their warm, soiled pockets
when military police arrives
to claim trophies at dawn,
just before the carnival
rolled splendid carts
before filled grandstands
of money and even more drugs.
The young ones died
in steep alleys
overlooking Copacabana.
No one will remember their names
nor the crimes they died for.
Life is cheap in villages
where the subversive pagode
rolls down narrow alleys,
where bars with cheap booze
congregate in lost smiles
of another generation.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-09-23 at 19:46
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