Monday, January 12, 2015


The caustic arms of fire-breathers bearing
the bald bones of creeds 
dropping cold ash into our bleeding eyes blinking
between the gun and the pencil;
I ask, which of the two would inspire a dream
if the barrel did the opposite of dropping blanks?

Do they hear the reverberating anguish
or dread not our immortal art and consciences?

Under the umbrella of vision of eternal paradise
if a benevolent god or karma perhaps
would resurrect common consciousness
we could live amongst ourselves
and not bite the arm of another
but here the tongue is forced at day
to dip into the bile of death's philosophy

at night we're here
staring at bloody portraits in a dark gallery,
suddenly, there's satire in the air that laughter cannot be addressed to
not to mention,
broiling flesh
wailing guts too
due to the putrid venom of extremism

We're not human enough to shake hands
at home,
thousands fall at Baga
but the bartender is busy
rehearsing whisky-blooded speeches

I marched in my heart
I was a pedestrian when the streets went gay with agony
I saw the ripe hypocrisy when hands held contact long like
a randy photog's gaze
in the lens of cameras capturing camouflaging
feet fighting..

Do they hear the reverberating anguish
or dread not the sharpened ivories of our teeth?

When there's true freedom of speech
I will frog-leap and chant
Je suis human!

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