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Masses flooding
running,gushing
in sclerotic streets
from Heliopolis to downtown Cairo
and from the great pyramid
to the stone lions
of Precolonial royalty
over the river Nile

lost in the way for country heart
me,my soul,and couple of my friends
whom I lead to end arteries
of the city hemorrhagic
were shot by snipers
of  (Victorian)
national police
  
and some years later,
I want to write a poem
let´s say cosmic
or universal
about that trio human
dream,death and deception

"Emilio,Lorenzo, Enrique
Fueron los tres en mis manos"

a cancer larynx revolution,
of bad alcohol and tobacco?
two holy hands of fate,
and one of eternal *******?
  
and a bored Lenin setting behind a screen?
(the algorithm will do the masses
when the masses are ready to run )

but time as God
is a lazy surgeon
forgot a scalpel in my throat
and I am officially cured of every thing
even the nasty hollow
of my tired voice.
wallets shaking hands on the way to ischemia,
I wander the rooms of  my heart, shapeless fast without a clot,
digital platelets meet and start a fire
in the last night without stars or naked moon.


Wor(l)d salad

whenever the public become familiar with coercive sciences,
I am the only flower that bloom in the hand of religious and enlighten the hearts of the new Nazis,
solace of disappointed national prides,solace of ***** gods in the battle of heaven, post-traumatic love and poly-traumatic joyful wisdom of exiled philosophical guerrilla.


the drag-queen moon put down all the make-up, before starting a joint in the middle of LGBT protest,policemen watching fun or apathetic,unaware of the secret trap to arrest or assassinate the moon later and before the celestial uprising.  

A travelling Nile island demanded her right to commit suicide before the flood, in season of migration to the south,only onions awareness and Evolved Garlic coalition is standing brave in the cybernetic war

the moon suddenly cry,heaven is as close as earth,and poems abandoned in between, dead flowers in weapons farm,or one striving in a burnt land,the moon is normally alone and sad
primary draft,unfinished
Mira Lamb Aug 2014
We gather here in the square, for what we believe.
There are shots and bangs but we still remain.
We stand together, all are united.
If death shall come, I will still stand firm.
Until our voices are heard, we shout – we shout!
A place of pride and dignity.

Dealing with the same tools as the one before
We left before it was finished.
“This is a warning! Leave! Go home!”
We will stand as the pyramids strong and forever.
They try to sweep us away like sand,
but firm we will stand.
The battle is in the images.
The battle is in the stories.
The battle is in the scars upon your back.

They want to take back the square
Our backs toward the sun
When we finally bow down,
we all bow together in prayer
but just as suddenly, we turn on one another.
Anger and arrogance –
hijacking our revolution.

They crush us with their wheels
but they cannot crush our souls
The stand becomes a war
The good become traitors,
and traitors become heroes.
I wrote this after watching the documentary called "The Square" about the Egyptian revolution that began early in 2011

— The End —