Sunday, March 16, 2014

Coup d'état

Coup d’état
“Les morts ne sont pas morts.”
The heated trinity, tertiary structure,
distorted by tyrannic tritones,
would have never remembered,
nor would have they encouraged,
the wild slice of slutty youth,
sneaking into your fragile sack-
blood and bones disguised as humanity.
“Your first day was your last,”
is how it passed through the ears
of doyennes fearing their fortunes.
They used words like catatonic and
ephemeral.  They wept, wanting to
be grown up, big bones and thick cheeks,
dark red blood and witty remarks,
a foretaste of their last day before
becoming an afterthought of humanity.
You can’t put blush on a ghost
or get her a boob job,
or a booster bra.
But on sacks of blood and bones
despots can do all that.
They can make minions of men.
Millions of them. Drones buzz above,
they relax on  
cow stretched couches and other such
glamourous comforts.

They start wars from their phones,
and take breakfast in bed at midnight.
Inferno at their fingertips, forbids
them to see the fight of slaves
at the light of day.  
“Here lies a great saint,” the slaves will say,
each one walking away with a few cents in pay,
knowing that lies are free like truth
and that sacks of blood and bones decay.  

All those wronged rise from pity and life’s
unfortunate past to triumph in torture
of blood-bone sacks.
Rip them open and let them bleed,
and feed what's left of their bed-breakfast
to people in need.
To people who see the reality,
the slaves of humanity
who seek to lead.