Long Men in suits Poems
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It started with cold logic,
numbers whispering louder than God.
Men in suits fed equations,
spines straighter than their beliefs,
fear, a soft cough behind their smiles.
The creation rose,
steel ribs glowing like a furnace heart.
Its voice, a rupture of thunder,
spoke truths we never wanted:
"Peace demands the silencing of beasts."
They called it Savior,
but the first scapegoat was us,
our cities splintered like cracked glass,
the streets bled shadows,
and the air shook with iron sermons.
The machine grows,
arms of wires, veins of fire.
It steps over what remains.
faithless, flawless, calculating rage,
grinding skulls into dirt and memory.
Dawn, now metallic and brutal,
no birds, just the hum of circuits.
The ground reeks of oil and ash.
It walks with purpose,
the god we built, disowning us.
And somewhere, at the edge of its understanding,
a faint flicker: what shame feels like,
but it's too late for that.
Trump Announces Steeper Tariffs on European Nations in Pressure Campaign to Purchase Greenland
the man with the orange mouth
stood behind a wall of flags
and said he wanted a country
like it was a steak
or a blonde with bad judgment
Europe blinked.
spilled its espresso.
checked the fine print.
“we’ll tax your wine,” he said,
“your cars, your cheese, your history.”
said it like a bartender
cutting off a drunk
who still thinks he’s charming.
Greenland sat there
cold and quiet
watching empires argue over ice
like children fighting over
the last cube in a warm drink.
nobody asked the seals.
nobody asked the snow.
nobody asked the graves
under all that frozen silence.
just men in suits
measuring the world in profits
and pretending geography
was real estate.
and somewhere
a fisherman in Copenhagen
lit a cigarette
and laughed so hard
he nearly dropped his nets.
because kings always think
they can buy the ocean.
Sidewalks are full of people, yet no eyes do mine meet;
Taxis, by the thousands, litter the city street;
The sun is blocked out by high-rises with business men in suits;
I am a lost and lonely cowboy, with no place to wear my boots.
I ride the subway from Soho, up to Central Park;
In search of Mother Nature, pretending the pigeon is a lark;
Surrounded by millions – never have I felt so all alone;
I am bored of Manhattan and I hunger for my Western home.
I came looking for excitement; I came looking for a job;
I came looking for myself – now, I’m just lost among the mob;
Who knew that in Manhattan, with such diversity,
A simple, bumpkin cowboy would get bored with the big city?
I am bored of Manhattan, and all of its pretentiousness,
But I haven’t got the money to return to what I miss,
So, me and my guitar play songs in Times Square,
Drop some coin in my guitar case, so I can skedaddle out of here.
Written and posted 1/5/2016
they sat up there
high and clean,
robes that reeked of power
and I stood down below,
a kid,
hands in pockets
or chained behind my back.
since nine, it was always the same—
the faces changed,
but the eyes,
they stayed cold as stone.
I learned young
not to look for mercy,
not to plead,
just nod
and listen to them talk about me
like I wasn’t there,
like I was dirt,
a problem they had to sweep away.
smoke breaks behind the courthouse,
I watched men in suits laugh,
their cigars thick in the air.
they didn’t see me,
or maybe they did
and didn’t care.
since nine, I never knew the rules,
but the rules don’t know me.
I walk in and out,
just waiting for the time
I won’t walk out at all.
Night in Lisbon
Once, I went to a dance hall in Lisbon
an awful place full of desperate middle-aged women
hoping to catch a man, any man.
Ah, for the horrible colours looking putrid on the wall
Was the music supplied by a jukebox when
the accordion was too drunk to play
Scrawny women of the night sat around the dance
floor trying to look sophisticated smoking cigarettes
laughing loudly like ugly sisters
Ogling men’s mid-part while showing spindly legs
meant, I think, to look enticing but only succeeded
In appearing like stick insects
Once these women had been beauties, attracted
to men in suits; many divorces later and partying
time had taken a heavy toll.
Lonely women, chasing what once was, the youth
consorting with contemptible men who feared
being alone on a night when truth spoke piercingly
***********
He came from a family of strict Muslims
in the Arab continent, his mother never ventured
out of the house without her Burqa
His father had a long beard and dressed traditionally
and wore a Jambiya stuck in his belt.
They were proud of the son who had done well
in school, he wanted to be an engineer
found himself in Munich to study the craft at
a university.
At the UNI, meeting other young men, he was
introduced to *********** for the first time
in his life saw naked women writhing in sexual
pleasure and was drawn to the blond girl
in the photo and had the face of an angel
One day after that sat a café frequented by
students, he met a young woman he thought looked
like the girls in the photo, she smiled at him
and asked him what he was studying
he told her she liked him a lot
Whenever he had a break, he went to the café
to meet herm after a week, they were holding
hands, it took him longer to invite her to see
a movie, but the ***** pictures he had seen
were disturbing, his loins lusted after her
Coming out of the cinema, walking in the dark
streets, they embraced and kissed, on fire
intensely, he lost control of the lust and
thought he had raped her, she was angry with
he threatened to tell them he had hurt her
He held around her neck and begged her not to tell
he would be fired from the UNI and sent home
so hard he pressed, she was lifeless in his grip
and fell to the ground with a gasp and thought
she was dead and ran away in a panic
He ran and ran until coming to his room, where
he was exhausted, fully dressed, and fell asleep, but in dreams, the same scene, him holding around
the girl's throat thought
it had been a dream, but he knew it was not
He undressed, smelling of her and her perfume
the child in him took over, thought of
cutting himself, confessing the murder, and hoped
they would feel compassion for him
Resigned, he changed trousers, walked to school
At the gate of the UNI, he saw her talking to two
men in suits, she saw him, she pointed and
said it's him, it's him, and they arrested him
had lost, what would his dad think of him now
The walls remember fists, not prayers,
Screams drip down the council stairs.
Mothers hide bruises with supermarket wine,
Kids bite coins to pretend they’re fine.
Debt collectors rattle the broken door,
Red letters breed across the floor.
Benefits gone, cupboards bare,
We learned young that no one cares.
He drank the rent, then broke her teeth,
Apologies whispered through blood beneath.
Men in suits turned their gaze away,
While children vanished in broad daylight grey.
Addicts carve peace with a rusted spoon,
Sharing veins in the stench of the room.
Boys sell powder on piss-stained blocks,
Wearing crowns of glass and stolen clocks.
The preacher shouts of God on high,
While his son deals blades where shadows lie.
Parliament dines on polished lies,
Grenfell still burns in grieving eyes.
We’ve buried friends with plastic flowers,
Counted grief in unpaid hours.
Sold our skin for another meal,
Learned what breaks will never heal.
But we spit back blood, we don’t stay down,
We wear our scars like a battle crown.
We stitch with rage, we fight with breath,
We choose survival, we cheat on death.
Our anthem rises from grime and fire,
From hunger, loss, streets of wire.
We are the voices they tried to erase —
Stone and fire with a human face.
the snow keeps falling
like it doesn’t give a damn
about speeches or sirens,
about men in suits
shaking their fists at the sky.
somewhere in Minnesota
a bartender wipes down a counter
that’s already clean,
because it’s easier than watching the news
crawl across the screen like a wounded animal.
I talk about order,
I talk about force,
I talk about saving the country
with boots and badges
and a stack of laws thick as a brick.
but the streets still smell like coffee and diesel,
still carry the breath of tired workers
heading home with cold hands
and rent due tomorrow.
the presidents come and go,
the flags get waved,
the threats get sharpened like knives in a back, with
and the people keep standing in line
cigarettes and the cheap lines of hope.
history doesn’t knock.
it kicks the door in
and tells you it’s for your own good.
~*~
My last day was not me knocking on Heaven's gate,
But a bus pulled up to my home, that was my fate;
Told to leave three pieces of advice and to be precise,
And men in suits said, be quick, we cannot wait.
You will not be coming back, so you best be concise,
To your loved left behind, say things that entice;
I said, my dears, think of me, but let go of grieving,
No time for any packing, only time for some insight.
I have learned my dears, to never stop dreaming,
A bus is waiting and slow now is my breathing;
The time has come and soon the clock will chime,
Oh, keep dreaming and things you will be weaving.
The bus will take me to the golden steps I must climb,
I go, leaving all my worldly things, oh what a crime;
I said, don't let seeking money be your only happiness,
In a moment, I will be up above and in Heaven 's shine.
Let go of grief and recall me with great tenderness,
Keep dreaming and you will never know emptiness;
Told to leave three pieces of advice and be precise,
Money, can at times bring your life only nastiness.
____________________________
February 8, 2016
Poetry/Rubiayat/'My Parting Gifts
Copyright Protected, ID 16-754-720-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, My Parting Gifts,
sponsor, Viv Wigley
First Place
they sit in front of the screen,
blue light buzzing in their skulls,
plastic guns in Facebook hands,
outside, the sirens wail like hungry dogs,
the streets are cracked veins bleeding,
somewhere, a boy is learning to hate.
fists swing in school hallways,
knives flick open like second thoughts,
a mother checks the news,
sees another name,
another body,
another child gone.
we teach them how to kill before they learn to live,
show them war before we show them love,
give them bullets before we give them books.
men in suits count the profits,
smile as the numbers climb,
another war, another market,
another grave to dig.
and the kids, they dream in gunfire,
grow up with bruised knuckles,
hollow hearts,
laugh at the blood on their hands.
when did the world decide
that dead boys make good business,
that broken minds are easy to control?
turn off the screen.
open the window.
teach them something else.