meanwhile, at the capital...

streets lined with
mattresses like
piles of flesh

trees above
that shudder
like a final breath

a branch of cherry blossom
like baby pink fingertips
of limp forearms dangling off
edges of crinkled white mattresses,

a flower

Papers, Papers, Papers

Whiter than aching teeth,

Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,

Whiter than funeral wreaths.

My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
 My index finger chained by red tapes,

words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes

Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.



-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;

there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."

------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for 
your Papier-Mâché degrees."


So I listen to my second self once,

the more logical cynical satirical one,

Treading on the plot of their paper works,

playing crosswords as anxiety uncork

my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,

just as my career forks



Maybe I should be like my mother,

Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.

Maybe I should be like my father,

Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.

Maybe I should be like the Other,

Going along with the system-- thanking myself

beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.



I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,

I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.

Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,

or should I rise up against all odds

Opposing, debating, rebelling against

this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows

Or must I write it all down,

in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds

Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands



But what will I ever be to them, friends?

A papercut, perhaps.

I talk to the world
May they hear my heart

I cry out my protests
May they know my problems


My words. Where are they?

They bite us.
They beat us.
They throw us off buses.
All in the name of teaching us a lesson.  

They ****** us.
They brutalise us.
They protest in their defence
And blame us,
All in the name of teaching us a lesson.  

A young girl returned home from a movie,
And god did they hurt her for it.
There were protests for her,
Thousands of women chanting for her.
Every woman felt pain for her,
All in the name of teaching us a lesson.

But still,
They hold us down.
But still,
They contort our bodies to their will.
But still,
They force us to endure such agony,
All in the name of teaching us a lesson.

The roses of the garden where but an illusion,
the looking glass was filled with a dead man's dream,
Of flying bullets and a blazing gun,
Our blood was washing down a carbon stream.

I see these visions of another time,
Filling my head with the school-bell chime,
And so the white doves came,
And took me on their shoulders,
And when the night was tame,
The world did seem so much colder.

The sun shone thru the trees,
That's all I could see,
Was the weight of the world,
On the back of a boy,
And his busy brain swirled,
Like a broken Christmas toy.

And so the leaves fell in golden grace,
And my tears swelled in sweet embrace,
The death of a father,
And the sin of a lover,
Seemed to me to be a bother,
And so I ducked for cover.

Behind the pickup truck,
Beneath the carpenter's chair,
Two girls tempted lady-luck,
And the brothers stopped by the village fair.

Until the leaves fall gray,
And the sister-wives see the light,
Cry little boy who can't stop to play,
Beyond the simple town,
Where the Greensleeves start to fight,
And the masses to pray.