Long Executions Poems
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Believe it or not, their ubiquitous webs
Are everywhere; they are the dictators
Who kidnap, maim, torture and kill teachers,
Poets, ordinary folks and babies in their cribs.
They rob and ransack innocent citizens,
Steal elections and after a lifetime in power,
Categorically refuse to leave the tower.
Very often, they do everything to muzzle the chickens.
Monsters are constantly in disguise,
They are well dressed, they wear uniforms,
They know how to blend and to socialize.
Monsters, at every turn, want to control the dorms,
Manipulate the data, fool the media,
Hire henchmen and spread false propaganda.
Monsters behave like manipulative magicians,
They suck the air out of the innocent bystanders,
Befriend desperate and impoverished musicians,
Surreptitiously inveigle the nosy neighbors
To exteriorize their feelings, and they spy and lie,
At every opportunity; and at every occasion,
They bury their preys alive in the dungeon.
Believe it or not, monsters are like rats,
Their appetite is insatiable; they crawl under the mats,
Bite babies, steal millions, and hide the money in overseas coffers;
They rape young boys and girls, and destroy the future of many.
The revolution was not done right ‘cause the kidnappers,
The pick pockets and their accomplices are still under the tree.
Those raccoons, those bedbugs don't go away easily.
They outlive the exterminators. These goons are really bright.
Be cautious, because they are out there day and night,
Operating at every meeting and at every party.
Believe it or not, all bad things must come to an end:
The lies, the crimes, and the arbitrary executions of the church band.
Copyright© February 2012, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry books:
Sleeping in the bones of humanity
A fear snarls complications and apathy
As humid poverty dies ingesting vices
While tossing dice into the digital
Scream as surrealistic executions
Rifle through old files yellowed
The answer is never bound but held
Loosely by iron-hands of iron-men
As women wearing polite lies ring bells
Applauding ejaculations from hell
At once a sickness ferments lock-jaw
Gnashing us all with the fangs of its law
Until ghosts outline exoskeletons
Of crawling roaches behind a wall
Of painted flowers strangling sanity
As toxic exhalations whisper
Oblivion in a nanosecond shivers
Lilacs and perverted old men licking
Tremors of shouting and shaking
Entities hiding within decrepit norms
Digging for worms fishing for faces
Within the bubbling illusion of depth
Slave ships drowning our names in the darkness of so-called “civilized” nations,
A Yalta of vultures: yen, yards, barrels — Africa sold without ever being consulted.
Exegetes in uniform: incense and executions poured into the same holy font,
Césaire cried out; the colonizers counted cocoa, skulls, and schoolbooks.
A kaleidoscope of crimes: kepis, Kalashnikovs, mass graves, leonine contracts.
They spoke of “assimilation”; above all, they sought enslavement without eyewitnesses.
At the heart of slave plantations, the glory of empire carried the putrid stench of the torn holds of slave ships,
A “French Union” whose only true unity was the whip striking scarred backs.
High priests of the Republic, triumphant vocabulary dressing genocide in elegant attire,
Uranium from Niger, monetary ultimatums: an independence controlled by the Nazi bailiffs of the French treasury.
Soldiers without scruples sowing social earthquakes beneath the sacrificed suns of the trenches,
Slaughtered riflemen, traditions slashed apart by racist tribunals too convinced they were illuminating the face of the slaveholding Republic of Enlightenment.
And colonial schools imposed shame: “Speak French if you wish to exist in the garbage bins of assimilation.”
Red rivers of independence fighters reduced to the status of rebels to be pacified,
“Humanist” West: an oxymoron where the Black man remains an object to classify in the encyclopedia of movable property.
Mutilated memory, demonic masks locked behind glass while African mines are privatized,
Africans called “brothers” when they must die for the liberation of the Republic of the Code Noir; “migrants” when they seek merely to breathe beneath the fountains of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Imperialism clothed in neocolonial garments: interests, influence, Arab, Maghrebi, and Tuareg terrorists as intermediaries — the whip has gone digital in the colonial trading posts,
Our ancestors were not savages: they were simply too dignified to be tamed by negrophobic barbarians haunted by their own existential anxieties.
Hummingbird’s playing
in the background,
The Page
plays the blues,
interludes,
fingers touching the
sensual key notes
scent openings
in the mind
reeling
in the horizontal lines
along morning bodies
now glistening, the
dark nights aligned,
The Page
plays the blues,
Hummingbird’s playing
in the background
those heavy Prison Blues
absent black holes
now universes away,
A Page
of falling
angels' feathers,
plucking the strings
pressing points slowly
in from the cold
warm air tracing
curves
in the winding road
whispered along smooth
racing executions
erogenous pleasures
shifting gears upwards
No 4 Preludes
undressing Chopin
in another way,
Hummingbird’s playing
in the background
slow dancing
french kissing
seducing
interludes
A Page
of falling
angels' feathers
strings softly plucked
come undone
Emerald Eyes
measuring
the blues
No 4 Preludes
undressing Chopin
in another way
The Preludes
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Chopin No 4 Preludes (Chopin), Jimmy Page
Hummingbird, Jimmy Page
Emerald Eyes, Jimmy Page
Prison Blues, Jimmy Page
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.
In the quiet whispers of dreams,
I dance with shadow's ebonescence,
as photonic particle - collider,
photosynthesis derider,
unveiling entities,
of "agents provocateur" to seize a "visitation"
upon the dimensions precipice
per chance to lay siege.
In the depths of "our present darkness",
petra-charred and invisible against the oiled skin
of night.
Chameleon sins-
spiders its neural network
across the fruited plains,
trading insiders
like it was the New York Stock Exchange.
Black domes in the rock of jig altar,
to sire getaway mountain dens and tunnels
for BlackRock Pfizer Op -Executions.
Their golden boy, will spotlight meteoric,
the proverbial fly in the ointment,
Act III lift of a-weighted curtain-lifting back wings,
showing a defyning eye and marionette strings.
Les Miserables-play on words-play on heartstring phantoming our opera, staged in
Anti-Christian cryptonite.
History channeled redirect
rhetoric dialect of reflected subject to chain,
and the death of fiat currency,
just a coincidental theme?
Freedom is a currency isn't it,
a Hallmark card from the Corporation
to the People- to read,
between the lines of allegiance-
swearing till blue in the face,
alliance against malfee-seance in press release
of 3 letter agency.
As Apollyon waltzes in from the bottomless pit.
Social credit scored to fit the bill.
Cloaked in fine Kingly robes of industry.
fact checked by the Ministry of Information.
When will love speak it's instinctual dialect
in a neon sign language not lost in translation?
When will hope weave it's august majesty,
Seraphic-wings spread over as a covering tapestry.
In cure of a cerulean sky with
hope diamonds of open transparency,
lifting us in perpetuity.
Till that day,
with each intrepid step, a nightmare before Lent
their Black Christmas unfolds
a returning echo on the steppes,
etched in our collective brains like petrified mold.
In an apology of words,
emotions coagulate churns sour worm meal,
acidic curdling of my stomach, a larvaeic curd-
cysted curse to the soylent green new deal
of New World sufferings
and pain, of UnitedNationsBurntOfferings,
with a disdain for comic relief
or cosmic entymology.
I do not need anything anymore
Nothing whatsoever seem worth the sacrifice
There is this life I can no longer adore
Too much of time bears little of significance with goodbyes
Does it still mean something when you were young?
Whether we were loved or hated... what does it matter now...
However aged.. why are there always something to want?
How much years am I left with to find that nothing goes only around?
It just doesn't matter if I remember
Doesn't matter much for the things I'll eventually do
Time will move for the care of individual selves forever
We will die and always be replaced by the selfish anew
Have I knew too much or have I thought too far?
I do not want to lie to myself anymore that I'm a supposed person
Good or bad are only who understands what we are
How are executions different from murder with a valid reason?
Whether or not we become who we want to be
I will die and not even know who will know who I am
After unknowingly becoming this eventual me
I would ask perhaps "What is your price of life, my friend”
Estimates of deaths attributed to regimes following Marxist-Leninist ideology in the 20th century vary widely, often cited in the range of 60 million to over 100 million people. These deaths occurred through executions, man-made famines, forced labor (Gulags), and deportations.
We do the same thing
over and over again
and expect a different result.
~attributed to Albert Einstein
“MARXIST REVOLUTION NOW”
is the most ignorant solution
I have heard in this 21st century
woe-is-me trajectory.
Sand castles are washed away
easily by time and tide,
less easily lies the blood
shed by revolutionaries.
Righteous is the cause in one’s own ideology,
and for this we make no apology.
Auschwitz
1.3 million people sent there
1.1 million died
Jews Germans Russians
Ethnic Poles French Czech
Many Others
Auschwitz I (Main Camp)
Barracks 1939
Home to Polish Prisoners of War
May 1940 First thirty prisoners
German Career Criminals
Sadism, torture, beatings
Tattoos of serial numbers
August 1941
First Gassings
Soviet and Polish Prisoners
Cell Block 11
Auschwitz II (Birkenau)
Concentration and Extermination Camp
1942-1944
Jews transported by freight trains
Death
Gas Chambers
Starvation
Disease and Torture
Executions
Auschwitz III (Monowitz)
Financed by Private Industry
Inmates employed
Spring 1941
Walking through town to work
July 1941
Factory workers
Transported by freight train
1943-1944
35,000 inmates employed
Inhumane Conditions
Daily Deaths
Exhaustion
Disease
Starvation
January 1945 Evacuation
The Death March of 9000 Inmates
Most were Jews
Transported by rail to subcamps
Jan. 27th, 1945
Liberation
We must never forget, we must teach future generations history. We can never let this happen again.
04/20/2021
Written for The Last Train To Auschwitz Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann
All of a sudden
The stars have stopped shining
Blimming sadness in Heaven
Too many babies are maimed and hurt
Too many infants are starving and suffering
Too many women are crying and mourning
And too many men are being sought
For summary executions
Where countless elders of the sad nations
Have disappeared without a trace
The pain is excruciating. What a disgrace!
All of a sudden
The sky has become extremely dark
Bloody chaos in Heaven
The cemetery is in the park
The buildings are bombed and bulldozed
For heaven’s sake, too many soldiers are overdosed
Where ships, vessels, yachts, boats and canoes are sunk
Somewhere is buried a dead skunk
Where everything is comatose and decomposed
No one can honestly envision a bright future
Where nobody can dry the tears of Mother Nature.
The stars have stopped shining
The moon is visibly absent
The sun is on strike and fasting
And the weather is eerily aberrant.
Copyright © June 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.