Best Executions Poems
Go on
tell them
tell them how
your democratic masturbation
searching for solutions
has failed in calculation again
now people with eyes made of glass
are bringing war to us
war has no heroes, only victims
and people who forgot they are
formula is clear
we invaded their way of life
now they are attacking ours
an eye for an eye
until we all became blind
lightless
go on
run
shout your lungs out
when you use weapons
to maintain peace
bloodbath is inevitable
or this is what your real intent was,
is
to baptise us anew
launder in our own blood
on which book
are you evaluating valuable ones now
while you're designing
a brand new world
holding blameless victims
as hostages of your fundament
none soil
in blood built
remain peaceful sleep
are you sleeping well
knowing you set
Abraham's children confrontation
as two David's fight
while Goliath is watching from the audience
are you sleeping well being aware
you left no one
to keep that thumb up
when we all appear
lightless
Sorrow spoke the alphabet,
Turned upside down.
The little girl will bring, they said...
She will bring cemetery corruption.
Turned upside down alphabet.
Fountains will bloom executions down to the aqueduct.
Stripes arranged flat in the ground of the jail where pupils ran orange,
Lines across the story,
Tell her of her grave.
Blue hearts perfectly presented,
Around a pink fountain.
Future stands in the horizon,
Tattooed heart, she will bring.
Nobody knows if she will stay for long,
But she spoke sorrow in a stereo telegram,
as she cried in an alphabet voice and tone,
where spiders fell on her cheeks...
Turned upside down alphabet.
Fountains will bloom executions down to the aqueduct, for all of us.
In times of politics, where power unfolds,
A bump in the polls through executions told,
A dance of ambition, a ruthless endeavor,
Where souls are discarded, like leaves in the winter.
With ink-stained hands, they plot and they scheme,
Silencing dissenters, crushing each dream,
Lives laid bare, sacrificed on the stage,
For political gain, a darkened outrage.
Promises broken, morals forsaken,
The pursuit of dominance, a path deeply taken,
In the pursuit of power, hearts turn to stone,
Leaving behind a nation, fractured and alone.
Executions of hope, casting shadows long,
The masses left questioning where they went wrong,
The system corroded, corroded and stained,
As justice and truth, they wither and wane.
Yet amidst the darkness, a flicker of light,
Courageous voices rise, fearless in the fight,
They rally the weary, ignite a spark,
To reclaim what's lost, and mend the torn arc.
For a bump in the polls through executions grim,
Cannot silence the spirit that resides within,
United we stand, against the tides of disdain,
To rebuild a future where justice shall reign.
In Florida's land, where horror's dance,
A tale of darkness, a macabre trance,
Whispers echo through death's domain,
Of botched executions, haunting pain.
Within those chambers of somber despair,
Where lives are tethered by the politician's snare,
Justice, is sought, with trembling hands,
But fate plays out a wicked, evil stand.
The first scene unfolds, a chilling sight,
As veils of lethal fog blanket the night,
The chemical concoction, a deadly brew,
To end a life, as the law construes.
But nature, in her cruel jest, did jest,
And tremors shook the chamber's breast,
The veins refused to yield their prize,
As life endured, against all demise.
Witnesses watched in awe and fear,
The agony, the failure, all too clear,
The reaper's grip, a fleeting grasp,
A botched finale, a grievous lapse.
And yet again, the gallows called,
A stage for justice, where souls were enthralled,
But darkness loomed, a looming cloud,
As time stood still, in silence, proud.
The hangman's noose, a deadly shroud,
Was cast upon a soul, as whispers vowed,
But fate, with twisted hands, did play,
And life endured, despite the fray.
Florida's soil, now stained in red,
With echoes of horrors, the tears unshed,
In the quest for justice, so grave and dire,
The heartache lingers, a ghostly choir.
For who can claim the righteous path,
When faltering steps invite the wrath?
The specters of the botched remain,
Their haunting cries, an everlasting stain.
In Florida's land, where shadows creep,
And troubled souls find no solace, no sleep,
Let us remember the lessons taught,
Of flawed endeavors, human thoughts.
For in the depths of these chilling tales,
Resides a truth that never pales,
That justice sought with blemished might,
Is but a phantom, lost in night.
They strap him down
like a piece of furniture
they’re tired of looking at.
White room.
White gloves.
White lies.
Then the switch,
the needle,
the quiet that sounds like a slammed door.
Afterward
there’s no ceremony.
No prayers left in the corners.
Just a body-shaped memory
sweating into steel.
Someone has to mop it.
Someone always does.
Not the warden.
Not the chaplain.
Not the men who signed the papers
from clean desks.
It’s the inmate with the bad eyes who always does,
he cannot refuse.
He read all of those books books.
The westerns writen by Louis La amour he is reading
and he keeps his head down, like the goat
he is the one who knows how to follow orders.
They hand him gloves too thin
and a bucket that smells like bleach and regret.
Tell him:
scrub it like it matters.
There’s blood where the needle slipped.
Urine on the floor.
A little vomit near the drain.
A toe tag still warm.
He wipes the chair,
the straps,
the metal tray,
the wall where the condemned stared
for the last ten minutes of his life.
No talking.
No pausing.
No shaking.
If he refuses
they write him up.
They take his yard privileges.
They take his phone calls.
They take his commissary.
They put him in the box,
where the light never quite goes off
and the air tastes like rust.
So he cleans.
Because time is heavier than pride.
Because punishment stacks.
Because tomorrow could be his turn
to stand where the ghost is still standing.
When he’s done,
the room looks new again.
Like nothing ever happened.
Like death never clocked in.
They lock the door.
Wheel in the next man.
And somewhere down the hall
a mop drips slowly
like it’s counting
the minutes and the lost in the rooms.
After they moved through the world , they said :
was a privilege, to be part of the the system that was,
considered murder by the M.E.
who did the autopsy on the condemned prisoners body after the execution.