These nightmares
Are black and white
Rectangle pieces of paper
Because colored
Cuts would hurt
Too much

Instead we track
Railway cars packed
People stacked
And dropped behind
Barbed wire restraints
Bare burnt brick buildings
Were soldier’s stole
Pretty clothes
Trinkets, and anything gold

Never forget
The nearly naked numbered men
That barely survived
The acid burning
Of women and children
Starving saints
More bone than flesh
Ovens made to cook
The stolen Skin of their kin

We hold such horrors
Far away
Keeping shallow thoughts close
While Forgetting those
Who suffered such indignities
But this is our shared history
Lessons we need to see repeatedly
So we do not let others succeed in
Seeding the same dark tyranny
In our modern democracy

Most is goodest
All is bestest
If you're a grammar ****
Than you should be a written paparazzi

O child of war, preserve your weapon,
For  future children let it stay,
For they will come and ask their question
What was the world like in our day?

For them, born under stars more lucky,
It will be hard to understand
How could the sky have been exploded
While battles raged on see and land?

How,flowing black with blood,could rivers
Rock,bridges bombs had battered down
They'll never see it-as you never
Saw sunshine in the world around.

Preserve your weapon,little eagles,
Of many battle it will tell
Of days ferocious and heroic
For grandson to remember well.



ሰባዊ ቀንበጥ አርበኞች


ምስኪን ልጆች
ሰባዊ ቀንበጥ አርበኞች
መሳሪያችሁን በደንብ በቅርስነት አስቀምጡ
ለአምሳያዎቻችሁ በዘመን ሃዲድ ለሚመጡ
ምክንያቱም በኛ ጊዜ
ሉላዊ ገጽታው እንዴት እንደነበረ
መጠየቃቸው ስለማይቀር!

ምክኒያቱም እድለኛ ሆነው ለተወለዱት
ለማስረዳት ስለሚያዳግት እንዴት
ሰማዩ እንደተናጠ በፍንዳታ
በመሬት በባህር ጦርነት
ሲካሄድ ያላፍታ-ማለት ልክ
እናንተ የሰላም ጸሃይ የምትስተዋልበት
ሰማይ እንዳላያችሁት!

ጠይም የደም ጎርፍ እንዴት አድርጎ
የቦንብ ድልድይ ፍርስራሽ
እንደወሰድ ጠራርጎ !

ለልጅ ልጅ ስለሚዘከር ስለበርካታ
የጅግንነት የአይበገሬነት ውሎ
አደራ መሳሪያች ሁን በደንብ አኑሩ ልጆች
ተናንሽ  ንስሮች !

በ  ሳሎ ሜዳ ነሪስ
ትርጉም አለም ሃይሉ


(ሉትኒያ በናዚ በተወረረችበት ወቅት ገጣሚዋ በግጥም ወታደሮችን ታበረታታ ነበር። አንድ ህጻን ወታደር የስዋን ግጥም ከጋዜጣ ቀዶ የደረት ኪሱ ይዞ በማሺን ጋን ተመቶ እንደሞተ ተገኝትዋል)

Half white, half other
Mother of a soon to be
Born from an intent at backlash
Mother of a born to be
Plastic spoon in a microwave
Destitute, minimal,
designer criminal
Bun in the oven
Baby be coming
Out of any mind to choose
Mother of a soon to be
Potential property to bruise
Heidegger enlisted to the off-side
Probably due to the wave before
Baby lost to the in and out
of control, vessel of the past and preordained
Prescribed a will denying the innate
All joke, all alone
Began to end in a hot flash
Mother of a soon to be
Giveaway

The big day was a week away
The streets were being swept
Folding stands erected
Where homeless, last week slept

To make a good impression
The Mayor told one and all
To step up and take note
To answer his loud call

We must show the whole country
We are the best at what we do
We have to show the country
The best side of me and you

This meant weeks before this
The police were out in force
Removing the imperfections
Both on foot and out on horse

A cleansing of the city
Make it nice for all to see
It brings up bitter memories
At least it does to me

It happened back in Europe
A little corporal took command
He did his little cleansing
With his little **** band

The town had hung up bunting
Like the banners in Berlin
being homeless is a problem
It's not where a cleansing should begin

The mayor had plans for plenty
Marching bands and lots of press
He'd only answer pre-set questions
In case it all became a mess

He had to have it perfect
It was his first parade you know,
the streets were freshly steam cleaned
There was nothing he didn't want to show

The displaced folks all huddled
Down in the park, a mile back
Veterans and soldiers
Whites, Hispanics, and some black

Their town was in transition
They were the cities hidden sore
They would never be accepted
Never let inside a door

The Mayor stood on the dais
Waved and smiled as folks went by
It was a town of smoke and mirrors
He showed the world a great big lie

Like the small Austrian corporal
who refused to change and would not bend
The Mayor lied to his country
It was the beginning of his end

Would you believe me to be death?
I guess it makes sense
For this reality, truly is hell

But I am a cheater of death
So here I stand;
Amidst the stink of burning corpses,
Dead eyes of starring, children and women,
Alive.
Oh, but how I wish I was dead.

Now, 80 years after,
The smell of burned carcass,
Still clings to everything I touch

Irresponsible behaviors.
Civility of civilised on test.
Much arrogance and pride.
In extremes who's the best?

Insensitive to alien customs.
Insensitive to other's belief.
Then why teach tolerance?
Kindly explain, please debrief.

**** anti-Semitic cartoons!
Didn't it led to Death Camps.
Can we call this Freedom.
Ask yourselves, O Champs!

I am Charlie! I am Charlie!
The echoing words I hear.
I am Kouchi! I am Kouchi!
Might be heard I fear.

I have studied **** Germany
Someone stood and preached to me
All the ‘important’ names
All the ‘important’ dates
I wrote them down like longshore secrets
And debated over them
Like they were the pencil sharpenings
With which I littered the floor
‘Excellent analysis’ she said
I have even stood by the gas chambers
And the gallows
At Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp
And written insensitive poetry about insensitivity
But have I heard of Hans Litten?
Of course I haven’t.
I have stood in the Berlin gestapo office
And formed philosophies that feel more like profanities
Wondering how it can ever be appropriate
To take a school trip to a genocide
But tonight my ‘important’ education
Feels like the greatest atrocity
My guilty ignorance beats almost unbearably
Around my rib-cage
And waits for the shatter and the shards
Because I have never heard of Hans Litten
We all know six million
But who knows the six million?
We remember names that we stored away
Because mentioning them in an essay
Might bring about a higher grade
Displaying ‘a highly developed and complex level of understanding’
We remember names like we remember shopping lists
Or science lessons;
A few particular points
No attachment necessary
In fact, clinical detachment is far more becoming
When it comes to essay questions
They never told us about Hans Litten
Or about the men who also ran in the race to be in history books
Or about their mothers
And their fathers
And the people they shared cells with
And the people they shared graves with
My God, they never told us about Hans Litten
And Hans Litten is better known
Than most of those phantom dead
Those cracked-open voices that dared to raise
Until they were too loud for anything but the conveyer-belt
Concentration Camp system.
And the thing is that six million is not such a big number anymore
Because there are 49,506,514 views of Simon Cowell crying
And nearly 300 million of One Direction singing a song which is not so beautiful after all
And people are so desensitized to the number six million
That they believe that the world
Would not have enough **** in it
Without them posting hatred after obscenity after hatred in the YouTube comments
And Hans Litten, I can’t help feeling that I’ve failed you
My generation could tell you the private lives of their idols
But would not know your name
And we will still pour into school on Monday morning
And chorus our tireless fatigue and our lack of motivation for life
And I will still pour into school on Monday morning
And let myself complain and moan and grapple for sympathy.
I’ve acquired this abstracted self-loathing recently
That is less a hatred of myself than a hatred of what I have made of myself
Of my ingratitude and self-centred inability
To compose poems that do not start and end with Me
And of my procrastination and my ceaseless desire
To live something other than the life I’ve been given
Like I asked for extra cheese and got given Margharita
****.
I’m insufferable.
Hans Litten your list of injuries was ten times longer
than the list of all the wrongs I’ve had done against me.