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.
Apple pie and fudge galore.
On Halloween I opened the door.
Just someone in a ghost costume.
And a witch with a broom.
Cars outside are covered in rust.
I always leave out the best pie crust.
For him to eat.
He needs a treat.
He needs a treat better than sugar and flour.
So I baked for an hour.
Made some concoction.
Which he takes with no reaction.
No inflection.
No reaction.
Just fireflies flying around.
As he cleans without a sound.
Washing the blood away.
As well as the baking tray.
He trusts anyone who will give him food.
He’s sometimes in a bad mood.
Then he eats the flies, filled with old flesh.
He knows that no one will confess.
That they watched him.
Transform from within.
Apple pie and fudge galore.
Cleaning up is quite a chore.
Once you’ve baked the best pie around.
There’s sure to be a mess on the ground.
The organs and blood.
Pretending it’s just mud.
That’s how the cycle goes.
When he smells it with his nose.
When you use enough sugar and flour combined.
You can cook the body up for no one to find.
Then you just need a supernatural being.
So no one will believe what they are seeing.
Change vomited dark entrails
Of the bald vulture on my clan;
We were buried,
One after the other,
In the belly of the village stream,
And pulled out
Almost immediately
To choruses that had no place
When waist dance shared peace
From the full moon;
We have brayed and prayed
In the names of strange ancestors
Printed in a book of curses, blessings,
And chronicles of their blessed exodus
But we have been sinking
Down the understream
Among the half dead and the forgotten;
We reek of bile throws
From a turn in history
When our men were led from line
By yellow ants
Thus change has treated
MY clan this badly.
Lakes lie limpid imponderable,
glistening and glassy.
Looking like kites hanging
suspended in the sky,
towing streams as shimmering tails,
wriggling in the wind.
Lakes and streams are inseparable,
codependent, bedfellows,
each alike each other,
with wet bed bottoms
and wet watery entrails.
by Michaelw1two
the dust slowly clears
sirens wail, the wounded crawl
from the burning street
May 2013
Only a few succeed
Countless fail
Choking on bills
Dreams that don’t sail
Foreclosure of fortune
Liquidated entrails
Empty homes
Lives for sale
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