Damascus Is On Fire
Damascus Is On Fire!
Damascus is on fire!
The wooden men and the plastic men.
They roam the avenues in search of corpses.
Young deathless corpses with frozen grins.
They break into the mansions and into the buildings of hypocrisy.
They strangle the truth and eat hate for breakfast.
I scream from the hill top.
I cup my hands to amplify the sounds.
I bend over and tell the wooden men, the plastic men,
To sniff there as Mercutio sniffed the Nurse.
To smell there as Hamlet smelled something rotten..
Evidently, it has all been said already.
Apparently it has all been told many times before.
There is absolutely nothing new under the sun.
Nothing. Nada.
So what business do I have
Sitting here in Death’s paradise
In bloody Damascus as it burns
Writing this and screaming this and bellowing this missive of nonsense?
And who am I to think that anything I have to say
Or plead, or wail
Has any profound significance at all?
Where is this going?
I really don’t know.
Should I?
Should anyone?
Damascus is on fire!
The wooden men and the plastic men
Have their swords lifted and prepared.
They roam the ancient avenues in search of corpses
They strangle the truth.
Waiter! Waiter! I’ll have my martini now;
Make it dry and toxic.
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