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km Jan 2011
If I wanted to see the Eiffel tower
I’d pick one photo
of the hundreds, of thousands
ever taken

Taken from every possible angle
In every light available
From down, down, beneath,
and from up, up, above

From an apartment balcony
late at night
with a glass of wine
in one hand.

But, I don’t want to see the Eiffel tower; No!
Instead; I want to see
The laugh lines
of the man who built it

Or the rosy cheeked child
on the corner street
wishing that they were bigger
than they already sadly were,

Or the imprints
of a new-born goat’s feet
in the red, red sand,
of West Africa.

I’d want to see
‘from whence he came’
and ‘from whence he goes’ “
and what home really is again.

I’d want to see
What it means
to see Something more
than just another photo view, of the same old Eiffel tower.
All rights of the author.
km Dec 2010
we are the children of the boomers working class
we sip coffees on the outskirts of town,
where fields meet banks and dentists.

we are generation y and we have been labeled.
we travel to far lands to rid ourselves of the suburban perfection and the small-minded complaints of lawns and *** holes.
we search for value beyond what is in our pockets.

we have watched our parents live monotonous lives,
in order to provide for us.  
we are told that we are spoiled, and slow-starting.

with every act and thought we fight to be otherwise.
we are the children, who were talked about,
during big decisions.

we are the children who were ignored.
now we are effected.
the weight is on our shoulders.

we must live in the world that they created.  
we try to modify, to make due, to change,
only to be told we are naive and powerless.

we have interests in things other than suburbia, business, and details. most apparently, we think for ourselves.
we live in a gap of time that our parents never had,
or that we can not imagine them ever having.

we dream, we debate, we express and we travel.
we move beyond the experiences offered here.
in twenty short years, we have already had enough.

we hold onto a small piece of string,
dangling in the darkness of our existence,
holding onto opportunity, before we are forced to forget and settle.

we hope that some of us will escape. we fear that it is impossible.
we have been given everything, we are lucky and we are safe,
and yet we are unsatisfied.

we have learnt the lesson about money and happiness sooner than our parents.
we get ****** in sleepy city’s to shut out the constant speed and pressure.
we sit on cliffs and watch lights flicker off the waters edge. we sip coffees by highways and pretend we will last like this forever.

everything feels like a movie scene.
everyone is a character.
everyone is fighting against the future that we’re told we’ll have.
the weight is on our shoulders.
we are the children who inherit the earth,
and all of its horrendous problems.
km Dec 2010
Intermitted silence
Has a sound
Of nothingness
It exists in its
In the very same
Way as you and I
As we realize we
Are only objects
In other’s worlds;
Only noise to
The ears that
Intercept us
We exist in
When we exist
As sound does
In silence
Rights of the author
km Dec 2010
The overripe mango that sits promptly on my desk stares at me through its one eye, indignantly asking to be eaten – before it goes bad.
I consider, strongly, the mango’s proposition.
Contemplating the level of hunger, or desire I have for this demanding piece of fruit.
It may be that the latte I just finished burnt off any remaining taste buds I have, or it may be that I find
something amusing about holding a mango hostage of its pride – but I just can’t eat it.
A once firm, confident specimen edging ever closer to becoming a wrinkly, seeping, sack of rotten juice.
Knowingly, I chain it to its fate by refusing to slice the skin back and swallow its sweetness.
It demands to be mutilated rather than aged.
As I sit here writing of my hostage, it continues to stare through its eye – spiting me.
Cursing me with future putrid fruit, with worms in my apples, and with brown bananas.
Oh, how I hate brown bananas.
This mango has learnt well in the time it’s spent in my room, it knows my weaknesses.
I always knew that fruit had character, but this mango – I tell you, it’s something else.
May not be printed for other than home use.
km Dec 2010
Contentment is the greatest evil in the human grab bag of emotions.
It’s born out of the head of ignorance,
it resides in the heart of the blind.
It manifests its evil doctrine of passiveness throughout the body,
until fully enslaved by inaction.
It turns agents into sun tanners,
activists into office workers,
outlaws into accountants.
It puts preservatives into culture, it laminates laws,
it places crowns on faceless leaders.
It slaps a smile across the *****, the beaten, the neglected,
the racially profiled.
It mutes news casts,
veils the homeless man that lives behind office buildings,
glorifies the paycheck.
It makes the walls of homes seem bullet, terror, bomb,
corruption, and death proof.
It allows sleep at night,
it kills the monsters under the bed and the ghosts in the closet.
It causes hundreds of thousands of suffering people to simply, disappear.
It insures, “birds like to be caged,”
and “pain is just part of the human condition.”
It whispers these misconceptions
like a priest insuring his congregation of the power of Jesus. Contentment, you see, corrupts the very concept of progress.
Progress is deemed by the million-pieces-of-paper-owners to be founded in terms of economy.
Progress is deemed by the people-who-stop-us-from-returning-to-state-of-nature to be founded in terms of control.
Progress has forgotten it’s maker,
just as dying old men forget that they were once bounced on a loving knee.
Contentment leaks from the Western world
and infects all those around it.
When you are no longer content
you will begin to see the holes in the patchwork of life,
and wonder how it was you hadn’t seen them before.
When you are no longer content, you will at last demand change.
May not be printed for other than home use.
km Dec 2010
You breathed
(I imagined)
As two worlds collided together

Boundaries cracked at their foundation
Red hot liquid spewed at the surface
And a simple white daisy was pushed out of the earth

(I thought of it, a likely story)
You said it was inevitable
Two opposing forces bring each other down

You lied
(I was broken)
And slowly, what was real was gone
May not be printed for other than home use, published or used commercially.
km Dec 2010
I am ready to throw out every map in the world.
I am ready to forget where the lines were drawn over the natural ebb and flow.
I am ready to forget which fields hold whose blood for which land.
To forget which coloured people live in what regions.
To forget the migration of the colonial powers.
To forget which continent is a lost cause, and which continent doesn’t have one.
To forget who sent what bomb, to which country, to **** how many people.
To forget why deserts are thirsty for more than just water,
and to forget why jungles are losing more than just trees.
I am ready to throw out every map, atlas and globe.
To throw out the borders that tell us who belongs and who intrudes.
To throw out everything we’ve ever been told,
About what makes us safe,
And what we must fear.
I am ready.
May not be printed for other than home use, published or used commercially.
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