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Clara Jan 2021
All your perfect squares and circles line up, like prisoners shackled one behind the other
like dominoes or mosaics or tiles on expensive bathroom walls,
not the kind you find in petrol pump stations or airports or immigration buildings
Then comes along a splurge of me
A boundless, non-conforming freak of clashing culture and ridiculous rhythm to all of you
My sound translates into your snickers and slurred speech
You think I am so slow you imitate drunkards and children
My ****** tongue may tie itself into knots on account of these strange new rhythms
but my eyes see and ears hear just as well if not better
I have what my mother gave me and what she gave to have me here
I am more than one I am my mothers gift to a foreign land
I am may not fit into the box that you have left for me but that is okay
I prefer to bend and shape at will, like the crash and chaos of culture that I am.
Clara Jan 2021
American puppets
Hanging from walls like flies in a sty
Chest out, hands on hips, fingers eyes screaming ******
painted faces and naked guns  
horns and hats on heads
wrapped in white
scaling walls like drowning spiders
Like the children you tuck into desert graves or return to murky waters  
Running at red
flag or flower
Petulant like infants
scuttling on all fours like roaches
do you follow rot or does it follow you
in either case you made a nest
good luck hiding once the stones are turned
and the sun melts your costumes
and hard crunchy shells
to show an empty and ***** carcass
fly your flags
the wind won’t hold them like its 1861.

— The End —