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Acoustics Are Not Working

Maimed, tortured for love of resistance this night appears to be without an end. There was nothing to lose, it was looking for some reason to die on the side of a cloud when the sickle moon was sailing. Tomorrow a new lie will be born. Even a suicide bomber will be tossed around, like a new coin. Weaving a dress of skin and bones in the little sky of so many purple birds. Acoustics are not working walls have no doors. By night only a torch will be moving.

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Denis Joe

Date: 12/19/2008 2:58:00 AM

The atmosphere of this is great. I like how it reads as a narrative of a personal relationship and of a relationship to events, with the emphasis on a lack of control. Yet the poem shows great restraint. There is no hyperbole and the creation of images such as that of the tossed coin are brilliant and gives hyper layered meaning to the poem as a whole.