THE INSURRECTION OF THE ENTRAILS
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment