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

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

Hole

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

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