If war, you're telling me, is what makes a
man a man
and that you can dig out my insides and
replace the good with automatic unfeeling-
reprogrammed to see no shadows and no
gray just the blinding light of some lairs
justice winding my spring and setting me
marching to the rat-a-tat-tat of bugles bleating
and you can then see fit to wonder why I
might one day come apart as splintered wood
and scream banshee curses and beat on some innocent
flesh with nothing in my empty head but the
nightmare visions and devil's rewind and all the
pox of all the horror you have made me do and
see, the ****** beast you have made of me:
then mister I have to tell you I want no part of that

If war, you're telling me, is what makes a
man a man
and that staring into the flesh torn face
of the stranger you told me is my brother
as my hands claw frantically to wipe away
the blood that spurts greedily from his neck
ripped open by stray debris scattered uncaring
into the wind and that I am meant to hear as well,
hear his foul frothing lips as the weary white
of terror drifts across his eyes and he flops
terribly trying to offer just one more **** word into
this ugly world with the sky turning red above
the both of us and the smoke as thick as carnivals
then mister I have to tell you I want no part of that

If war, you're telling me, is what makes a
man a man
and that I should with echoing voice rejoice
seeing in flashing images of that ephemeral
gaudy green the distant explosions from oblivious
machines and with each shredding salvo should
whoop and holler and not dare think what those streets
must be like, or the limbs in the debris or the searing
heat of the fire as it spreads hungrily from building to
building (office to office, home to home, who knows)
a feeding frenzy that should seem unreal, on a busy night
for Azreal, but since it is something far away I am meant
to be glad for it, and exalt the far off victim's torment
then mister I have to tell you I want no part of that

If war, you're telling me, is what makes a
man a man
and that a man I have never met who had the
misfortune of being born in his country rather
than the misfortune of being born in mine is
my enemy, is my demon defiled, is my foe and
that coming face to face I shouldn't think of his
mother/father/sister/brother/lovers crying just
like mine must be, but should instead see only
the ignorant rage flush his face and feel the cold
knotting of insensible hatred inside my chest should throw
myself on him a dervish of murderous limbs and
mercilessly pound the very breath from him and
smile all the while for having done it with the blood
still splattered on my face like a criminal's Rorschach
then mister I have to tell you I want no part of that

If war is what makes a man a man then god be ****** if it
isn't what breaks a man too, and filling our heads with
tripe and flags and marching bands doesn't change
the fact that I would be made a monster and the stink
of gore and sorrow untold would never wash from
my hands but would follow me to the end of my days
and it would be the last thing my mind would see before the black,
the stench then buried with me in my grave would rise
above the close cut grass, me just one in an ever reaching
row of crosses all done up in white-
not red or black or blue or green or any ****
color you told us mattered, that you sent us to
our deaths under with those colors flapping ahead
of us in the wind and pounding their venom in
our ears no **** color at all just:
white.
Which is all the colors mister,
all of them at all at once in fact.

Mister, I'll have no part in that.

You
Are not a man.
You are not worth
My mercy
Or my words how dare you
Touch him
With your hands filthy
Threaten to beat the **** out of
My lover?
If he doesn’t give you his cell phone you
*******
Or else he could give you
A ten minute *******
And escape with his life
And his bones intact
But not with his dignity
Not without ***** rising in his mouth and pain shooting through his body and reaching deep into the cracks that I have slowly been helping him heal
You are
Not worth my mercy
Or my words and
If I had my way you
Would be
Sitting pretty under my knife
If I had my way I would have my
Sadistic revenge.
Your bones
Are going to look so good
As earrings.

They wrap their arms
tightly around the other's
veined neck
clawing maniacally with
exposed teeth
and wild eyes.

a certificate;
their names as one,
ripped to shreds
but apparently
still valid.

and somehow,
when it's my turn,
I fantasise my arms
would lay limp
and his will, too.

But maybe
it's a glimmer of hope
of a candle in
interminable night--
wishful thinking.

Silly girl--
there is no romance
without menace.

The arrogance of the men and their violence
in all possible forms
– completely everyday or extraordinary,
subtle or extreme,
considered as being normal or abnormal –
depend on this, of course,
that they are either denied or justified
from the perpetrators of the violence themselves.
But also by the women in any way
glossed over, excused or forgiven,
which from childhood to the present day, in Western countries too,
has been brainwashed thoroughly,
which means: shut up, be obedient
and offer no resistance.


© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015

The hurt , the pain, the fights,
For others were unseen sights,
Hidden away, at home the secret would stay,
carefully thought of,
A fear which was never sought of,
For a child should have been unknown,
They were not even fully grown.

The emotions they had to deal with, had nobody to truely feel them with , not knowing , when it would be , the future they wish they could see , it could happen at any time , the kid should have been in her prime.

The smiles infront of others ,
The constant unsure stutters,
The acts of being brave,
Are the ones others generally crave,
Trying to escape the sudden calls, and after can hardly even crawl.

Waiting for this all to end, abit of safety would have been a god send, to talk of it now , we are still unsure how, the marks may no longer be there, but still we doubt if they care , to trust people everyday is much more difficult than they say.

This thing everybody knows of, but still is hardly spoken of, the children won't say it, adults prey among it, this problem needs to stop or it will hit an all time top.

Kneeling down
        Speaking to God
        His black eyes scream forgiveness
        The sound gives me goosebumps

    You see
                  I've done things most would consider a bit unusual
  But I've always deserved it
     A razorblade horizontally drug across my lips reminded me to never talk back
     Embedding shards of glass in my legs one by one reminded me to never run away from my problems
              
            After everyone died there were questions I could never say the real answer to
          
        You were there to hear the truth, always were
        Beside me, behind me, beneath me
    You never loved me enough to be inside, but it was ok because your mystique kept me inebriated

    The questions never stopped the rooms got smaller and I had to run
       I had to leave. You came with me

    I hated myself for not staying. And when the pieces of glass weren't enough, I understood I deserved a worse punishment, I lit a cigarette and started my trusty chainsaw
   And after I was finished even you shrunk away from me, my flat friend made of blackness where did you go?

       Now all I have is God.
He listens okay, but he's not like you. With my decimated body leaning against my bed, I look into his two deep dark hollow eyes, I bring his eyes closer, into my mouth, and finally he talks back. He says *bang

Raw illness rubs up
Against the wet meat of my
Indecisive tongue

and

I am sick with the
Taste of his filthy fingers
Snagging on my jaw

and

Honeysuckles bloom
Around the places that kept
Me from crying out

and

The air was too sweet
To explain why his breath felt
Like death’s brand across
My arched and aching
Spine. He ripped open my soft
Flesh and consumed me.

The pain
Of hearing words
Of hate and violence
Spilling from the mouth
Of someone so beloved
Burns so hot it turns to ice
Within my chest.
The pain
From the words
That seared into my skin so deep
You could find them branded
Into the lining of my lungs
So that my very breathing
Was punctured by your anger.

If you tell someone
Something long and often enough
It becomes their religion.
Your words of hate become their prayer
And the doctrine one of self-loathing
And smile-covered sadness.

If you had one constant
It would be anger.
Anger that simmers underneath your love
And erupts with the fury of hate.
Kindness and understanding
Are in short supply in your world.
My love for you
Is the only chain
That binds me to you,
The only chain that keeps me
From flying away from
The spite and resentment
That seeps into your tongue.

If you tell someone you love them
Often and long enough
Your words take root inside their heart
and weld chains that keep them bound to you.
If you tell someone you love them
The dictionary of hate
Should not leak from your tongue,
If you tell someone you love them
Furies’ kisses
Should not rain from your fists,
If you tell someone you love them
The poisons of resentment
Should not spill forth from the dark side of your soul.

If you tell me you love me
You could tear me apart
But never lose me.