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Poem

Commodities.

Traded as rapidly as futures,
sold to bidders, 
merchants of misery,
bought and herded,
into cattle-cars, vans, 
containers sailing,
on the seven open seas.

Women, men, 
girls, boys,
auctioned into servitude,
stolen lives, 
extinguished families,

for,

the cheap labour market needs to be fed,
an insatiable being desiring young flesh,
virgins above all, 
the high-end product for high-street tastes.

Stock-markets fluctuate,
beaming their hieroglyphics to the world,
derivatives and bonds and those bonded,
into sweaty, damp, 
vermin-infested factories,
stitching,
always stitching,
that prized designer shoe.

Have we looked into those eyes,
deadened by pain, 
the light long gone,
with mouths sewed shut,
all innocence plundered?

Girls, women, raped,

again
&
again
&
again,

till cold numb sockets stare back at you,
bodies scarred by cigarette burns, 
whippings,
slaps and bites, 
cocks and fingers.

The market never sleeps,
neither do the traders,
willing buyers procuring merchandise,
haggling over flesh and bone and being.

Wounds deep, raw,
oozing pus and blood.

Wounds deeper still,
the slaughtering of souls,
daughters and sons bartered,
flung from stolen childhoods,
into the bowels of a living hell.

Look into those eyes,
look straight into them.

Do not flinch, 
do not avert your gaze.

Look into those eyes,
staring back at you,
asking,
pleading,
imploring,
hoping for death,
wishing numbness,
as the ****ing continues.

I'm not culpable, I say to you,
and neither are you,
or him or her,
but,
we are silent savages,
mute rapists,
quiet molesters.

We are culpable,
our inaction condemns us.

We are culpable,
and so are you,
and,
I, 
and him,
and her too.

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