Scene from Shinji Aoyama's EurekaWhat is this blade that hangs over your head
from a thread made of fragile and hopeless dreams
of lost childhood friends and existential dread
of life’s prospects bursting apart at the seams?
What are the words that lull your work-weary mind
on a pillow stuffed full of the system’s green feathers?
What fractal visions in political turmoil entwined
run through your dreams; your futile endeavours?
Is it the cries of brown children with flies in their eyes
or the bloody remains of bombers and bombed?
Do the diviner’s bones fortell the empire’s demise
or justice forthcoming for those who have wronged?
And who hears your cries
in night-terror born, in daylight realised?
And in daylight too the awful truth must fade
To lift our heads above the night’s horror
To venture forth beyond the bed that’s made
To make your move; to head out for tomorrow
4 comments:
Allways your words move me and this one i have read many times now and it moves me to tears so close to home it hits .Bless you your words of site and sound in a dreary mind i have found.
"Is it the cries of brown children with flies in their eyes" says British poet P. Iscariot.
For Tex-Aviv couture house this season brown is the new black.
It's clearly a dirty color, the color of feces, Mohammedans and Hispanics.
The color of Arabian olive oil and Spanish grease…
Brown is also the color of terrorism: just look at the post-mortem pictures of Che Guevara and Zarqawi, and the fetid corpses of Shiite children littering south Lebanon.
Bushmert’s phosphorus bombs will bleach their oily skin and purify their dark souls…
Beautiful.
P.I.
You're a poet but don't know it!
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