Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Collective Pain

Is the world beautiful or disfigured?
This depends on the color of your skin
What does your environment look like?
It is contingent on the location your in
Of your body and the name of your country
What are your options, what are your possibilities?
Moreover, the socio-economic class that you fill?
1200 billionaires and 20 million millionaires
Own most of the world, most of the land and water

For how long can we play the role of victim?
In the theatre of suffering and inequality
Our consent sewn into our brows by coercion
Corporations prop up politicians, which just come and go
The state does not need shadows to do its dirt
The wicked are applauded for their violence  

Reading the capitalists explain, why the system is dysfunctional
They speak of spending exhaustion, talking about wealthiest
Who are tired of buying and purchasing what they never need
How can they tell us that the trickle down works?
When so many suffer from inequality and poverty
Contradictions built into the foundation

Every time we flush the toilet, filled with drinking water
We think of the people who walk for miles to dirty wells
What connects us, other then our collective suffering
This pressure on us, is not the kind that makes pearls
But the type, that crushes our minds and bodies to a pulp
Who will pull the sled filled with revolutionary dreams?
Whose back is strong from turning the wheel of pain?

Fast Food Mystics

Clenching spiral talismans in an rutted staggered gait
Our mantras disregard the third eyes as somehow deficient
Whereas spreading the scent of smoking sage into the wind
Whilst nudity resembles naught to eunuchs and mystics
What transiting modish hollowness requires rediscovering?
Crumpled within the greasy fast food wrappers of absurdity
Discarded alongside the audacity of someday and someway

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Grasping Chickens

What is it that you long to ruminate on?
Along the littered shantytowns of swaying occasions
Somewhere between the sea’s glass and forest’s grass
Walk the downtrodden, with slow and patient footsteps
Which erode the soil with rebellion and revolution

How many chickens are you attempting to grasp?
In your outstretched arms, dangling with rusty shackles?
It was my father, who showed me how to enthrall and
Fascinate chickens, with a slowly drawn straight line in the ground
Drawing a line in the dirt, does more then hypnotize chickens

So many of us, can’t acknowledge the disorientation
All these meritocracies and choices flash under dim bulbs
Where do you imagine smelling honeyed blossoms?
When the rest of us, dry heave from the stench of despair
Why do you not hear the teeming billions who scream for life? 

These isolated slanted silhouettes cast a shattered shadow
On the backlit walls of fixated, however yearning, ignorance
Our puppeteers speak always of untangling strings
The best they offer, is a nostalgic return to the beginning  
While the puppets themselves, dream of new freedoms

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


We are warped and twisted like cheap plastics
Alien, to much more then our labor, as predicted
We are not sure whom, or where we are anymore
Lost, except to the putrid taste of the beast’s entrails
Enwrapping us in hypnotic, sticky strangulation
Even time, is, indebted, to someone
We are increasingly tangled in the psychosis of perplexity
All the work and time, we spend learning to lie and fly
While we have always been, able to soar, honestly
Even with the variations of these, deformed wings of poverty
So many years spent, fueling ourselves with
The wrath and fury of injustice
The grind of daily oppression and inequality
Our duty supersedes the future we tread lightly on
Our hearts begins to feel, as a crumbling hole
We are not from the past, but somewhere else
While we attempt to grapple with the mundane existence
Of existing in a delusional reality occupied with artifices
Of which, as hard as we try, we feel ourselves dissolving into
No one walks the deer’s path, but the mislaid and forlorn
While the marked trail is laden
With moral and religious righteousness

Monday, August 6, 2012

Distorted Selves

Cannibal's Web

Who is to say, we would know your face anymore anyway
If we passed each other on the smoking streets,
Which continually burn as Nigerian oil wells do
Or that you would be fare for the famished
Stares of those cannibals on the roadside
Who eat their own, who consume, like lunatics
In the tangled bushes with wild eyes under the moon
Awash with the graceful silken strands
Of the spider’s web and struggling next meal