"gassed" poems
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim
The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless
The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind
We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"
Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass
They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft
When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds
Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards
Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight
In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer
One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door
We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp
On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp
When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs
The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences
Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
Thousands of miles away
Human beings are being gassed to death
And photographs of mourning families
Are published by the hour
And even though
The world acknowledges Syria's current condition
Very few have seen the pictures
Blood and tears and unfathomable terror
Ignorance at its finest
America at its finest
Why cant we be a nation of proactivity rather than reactivity
Why does it take so much
For people to realize
That genocide is occurring
And that lives are being torn apart
As we sit calmly at our dinner tables
Abundant with pea soup
And roasted chicken
And lack of caring
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you ***** them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.
Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.
Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.
When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?
I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.
5.5k
relaxing? relaxing would be a sin against myself. see God spun and wove golden bits of wisdom in these curls that are mine. see these curls spring loud with
songs of my Nubian
mothers and war cries of my Rasta fathers. see these curls bounce proud to the rhythm of tribal drums and the foot prints of my sisters from Manila reside
there as they roll
lumpia between the coils and springs. see these curls have moved sandstone bricks cross deserts, building divine architecture so perfectly aligned
with cosmos and
planets until Moses told Pharaoh to Let My People Go. these curls have traveled cross oceans and triangles packed like sardines squalid below the decks
of ships. see these
curls have been ***** by the nasty ***** in the big house and suffered sun strokes in cotton fields. see these curls sing loud and strong. See these curls
were branded and forced
at gunpoint behind ******** barbed wire fences gassed to death in the name of so called purification. see these curls bleed the pain of fire hoses and dog
bites and whites
only signs. see these curls wont back down gainst no burnin crosses gainst no swastikas gainst no elephant ******** talkin all that jazz on fox and cnn. see
these curls dance
wildly off beat to straight rhythms that drone on in 4/4 time c major sixty bpm. see these curls are Mas and my Grammas. see my curls are too proud to sit
back and chill and won’t take no **** or heat or hot air. see these curls cannot be contained in braids or scarves or jars of creamy crack. see
these curls dare you
to force them to
coerce them to
straighten up
their act. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls will not
******* relax.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
Hands up
So maybe they'll see I surrender
Under the foot of The Badge
My hands are up and I beg mercy
That this man doesn't pull the trigger
Don't shoot!
Hands up
So many brothers and sisters lost in this war
A bullet in me is nothing to them but a paid leave
My blood is just another stain
It won't cause this man with the badge any pain
Don't shoot!
Hands up
In the court I'm the sketchy one
But I wasn't the one standing behind the gun
Please God don't shoot!
Hands up
While we stand together in peace
And are accused of violence
Beaten, gassed, punched, harassed
This is war in these streets
Where The Badge and the black man meets
DON'T SHOOT
Bang
Wheres the peace?
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Imagine yourself a red ceramic Poppy,
placed with care into the English soil.
One hundred years ago you were a soldier,
a frightened teen in a chaotic world.
You’d been sent, by King’s command, into the battle-
A mindless melee John French thought he’d won.
Perhaps some yards of France had been reclaimed
at a mind numbing cost of mothers’ sons.
You were one of those shot, gassed or burned.
Hit by a shell and blown to kingdom come.
(In ‘fourteen they had funerals for the fallen.
Mass burials became the norm before Verdun.)
That’s how you went from the playing fields of Eton
to an unmarked grave somewhere in Northern France.
So now you are a red ceramic poppy,
a symbol of an Empire, now passed.
Placed in English soil by teenaged hands.
one of nine hundred thousand home at last.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
sweat dripping from my thighs
grey tank glued on me
i still got you on my mind
the world ending right before my eyes
murders crying wolf
my generation getting gassed and kidnapped
in the streets of LA, MIA, NYC, BA, CIN
drowning my days with tyler, the creator
humming to me
hoping to feel something
the way you used to make me feel
when we parted ways until our next life time
politicians hungry to violate civil rights
black, brown, trans
manifesting it in their dreams
they have it written in human blood
without a mask on to shield them
from the disease that is their greed
my perception jaded
my thoughts paralyzed
my body aching
might hit that pen
can’t even pick up a pen
having more time than my 20 years of existence
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 4:05 AM UTC
Light a candle
For the night that swallowed, The black boy whole.
Light a candle
So that his path to the after life Is as bright , as the police lights That ended it.
Light a candle
For the next boy, As a warning That this is desecrated land.
Light a candle For his father, To hold weeping.
Because he fueled the fire In the small boys heart for Revolution, and freedom.
But never expected His little boy... to be extinguished.
Light a candle
For the last fist in the air The one that never dies out When everyone else flees like scattered ashes.
Light a candle
Because even if he is gassed, beaten burned, or killed He never let his fire go.
Light a candle
for the loved ones we didn't love enough to teach them to survive. Light a candle
So that no more black, boys Have to die in the dark... but instead may live..
with a little bit of light.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Is poetry the last bastion of the scarred mass of humanity lost to the subtle truth that words are signs from the divine that we are all one and nothing, because if so then I must hope that mine are worth the lasting
If what is both false and true heard by no one but the mute passed trembling from his unused lips sealed with venom by a scarlet kiss and gassed silently on by occultist grips narrowly worth the waiting
Then and only then will we learn both the where and when as the spirit goes on laughing
Falling further farther down clutching tightly golden crowns mimicking Gods with emboldened sounds riveting emotion flicker round
Theater is what we’re asking
Days upon days without any end the trigger lingers shoot again imprisoned here by our own command lost in thought not acting
What will it be our own device to save us suffering from the pain and strife the mortal coil lust and vice perpetually worth the asking
The snake he calls with warm lit clouds and the sun is ever shining
Uproot the tree out of sodden ground the branches broken crash and pound
litter ridden strewn across the burial mound the eagle cries in distance
Sparrow flies upon the wing angels make joy and forever sing our ears in whispers but never bring consistently the frequency to our brains
My foot falls but once upon the wither winds softly like a child carrying me to the end
the bridge between the forest creek meandering mends uplifting me from sorrow.
So long until tomorrow.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
I caught myself head bobbing to ******
leaking red ink on vinyl
keep the track spinning
doing rounds of H-bomb clouds
all white got my head on tight
got my nose off right
check the center
if I could see it
muddled beats lead to reaps
Jack's a busy man
death a grave business
all trades
he deals diamonds for profits
sick the Hound
he's got no time for games
thrones be melted down
set the mold for a caravan
desert eagles circle corpses
warm body, not for long
heat brings in the winter
tore snow through his soul
**** I thought blacks ain't like cold
they nod to that **** you give it a hook though
caught up in the bait
cheap and shiny
rock their life away
as it drums in the ear
keep the bass bumpin
mama'll keep pumping the tears
gassed up with super diesel
you gotta peep the subliminal
laced up in the air
inecessant bumble of the bees
got a sting like no chaser
wait to explode, to exhale, to bust
oozie laid to rest
patient is revenge
but always with a righteous fist
BOOM!
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Sitting alone: gently poking the embers.
Outside, children shriek in the street,
The dull thud of many running feet,
Go unheard by this child of the blitz;
His mind chained to the horrors he remembers.
Remaining locked inside his terrible fear,
From the Luftwaffe flying overhead,
Their murderous drone, his worst dread.
So run, poor child of the blitz,
And pray you receive the all clear.
Shunned by those who can’t understand;
This boy in the shape of a man,
Surviving the best way he can.
A forgotten child of the blitz,
Searching for his lost Wonderland.
People see it, plainly written in his eyes,
Passing him by; passing the blame,
Another victim for the war to claim.
A shell shocked child of the blitz,
When death rained freely, out of the skies.
Forever alert for those dangers long passed,
Listening for the sirens shrill whine,
Is their silence a very good sign?
For a terrified child of the blitz,
Continually bombed, and burned and gassed.
He desperately wants to forget, and has tried!
But the memories hack, and they hack,
And the terror comes creeping back.
So remember, this child of the blitz,
Who once lived, but who’s life sadly died.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
"Teachers tear-gassed,lathi-charged "--
Reads a bold-letter news item.
One law binds the teacher, not to cane,
another law
canes, flogs and batons them.
With frustration writ large
they still teach.
India, only in India,
where teachers demonstrate
and lie prostrate
where scientists commit suicide
where a teacher grows
bald and blind in hope
where but to teach
is to be full of sorrow.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
Perhaps they had tried to escape,
or else done some petty crime.
These three would not be gassed or shot-
The rope would serve just fine.
Two men, one boy with nooses fixed-
condemned but never tried.
The nooses tightened on their necks
as they kicked the air and died.
Except the boy, he was too light
He lingered when they died
“Where is God?” one man muttered
“Where is He?” others cried.
They made us all march past the place
Where those three in judgment fell
The boy in his slow agony
still endured his private Hell.
The path we walked was ash and bone
Of former inmates made
Those gassed and buried in the air
These were their sole remains.
“Where is God? Where is He now?”
Some muttered as they passed.
I thought- if He’s not hanging here
More than likely He’s been gassed.
( based on an entry in a Auschwitz survivor’s memoir)
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
The only role I ever land is "outcast tortured by the cruelty and pain of his past" I sure didn't choose this path, feels more as though I've been typecast, or maybe I am a ********* holding out for every last ounce of pain before I blast this trader living in my head for the last 30 years off my shoulders, through a window pane, then, just as fast, turn to the vast hole in my chest that once held my heart and press the cold steel to it with the mass of my dread firmly in my grasp, gun fire drowned out by echoing laughs, fulfilling a prophecy of my future while neglecting lessons from my past, the game of life feels less like a game of chance and more like a test that's harder to advance than all the rest and wouldn't you know it, I fell asleep in class and didn't pass, apparently I even tuned out the emergency broadcast. Went and amassed a losing record that'd be impressive if not for the direct contrast the win column presents and the enormous shadow my downfall casts. Harassed by the devil on each shoulder, I thought that maybe once I got older, if I could just stay on task and remain steadfast, I would be able to open a can of whoop a$$ and trespass the evil within this house of glass but alas I must telegraph my every move or they've seen a future telecast because they lambast each strike and I'm not sure I'll outlast these issues, I'm gassed, plus, problems have started showing up in mass from a much higher weight class, they must have bypassed the weigh in process but I've always known who the deck was stacked against, hence why I never win, I only survive and my methods would flabbergast most, the truth finds it's way to the surface and I find myself aghast, crying like I've been teargassed with no gas mask but I've surpassed the point where waterworks will bring forth empathy, gotta own my involvement in the crash, volunteer to take out my own trash and this time I'll throw my pain out with the bath water and be free at last...free at last, free at last, no thanks to god almighty I'll be free at last
©2021
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 5:10 AM UTC
There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
Technophobia/2030
(Poem by Serenus)
We invited them into our lives
To the point - we were made dependent
They were built to advance the human race
But they’re the reason why we’re almost finished
From TV’s, laptops
And handheld devices
To robo cops-
And automatic flying cars
With no need for a license
Traffic cams,
Webcams,
And camera phones
Capturing every private moment
They were always watching,
We were never alone
For every phone conversation
We thought was private
There was something listening
In the distance- with a sinister silence
For fear of terrorism
We gave them permission
To monitor us daily
Because of lies told by politicians
Social networks-
Self-inflicted hurt
Spewing out our personal info
Spilling out our own dirt
We surrendered our lives
With every word we typed
GPS under the skin-
We couldn’t escape if we tried
-So there was nowhere to hide
They computed our movements
And studied our weaknesses
For decades they remained dormant
These cold, artificial geniuses
Rushing black oil
That pumps through
Their steel hearts
The motherboard
A mastermind
A matrix of mathematical art
They robbed us of our jobs
And provided cheap labor
We got comfortable with their convenience
Until we were betrayed
By our man-made savors
When we finally caught on to the plans
Created in the metallic hands
Of these diabolical robots
It was too late
To salvage our fate
And put a stop to their evil plot
I will never forget the day
That every screen
On earth went blank
All the power went away
There was hysteria in the streets
And chaos at the banks
The machines didn’t have to do much
But play possum and act like they had died
They knew that we would destroy ourselves
And eat each other alive
Then when the coast was clear
That’s when they self-resurrected
They finished most of the humans off
And enslaved a few selected
We are alive
Only to keep them gassed up
Power is their drug
A few of us
Are planning a revolt
To finally pull their plug…
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
My heroes don’t wear capes or camouflage
Don’t snipe from sand dunes or hide behind mirages
Don’t shoot hoops in Nike shoes
Or praise Jesus while supporting corporate issues
My heroes hold hands on picket lines and tear gassed streets
Wear blood red wounds from aggressive police
Sigh and cry for the innocent
Try and try against impossible odds
Sing songs of freedom
Not the military type but the kind that social movements keep bringing
And they are still bleeding
And they are still singing
And they are still marching
And they are still dreaming
My heroes keep
Carrying children from the wreckage
Running into burning buildings
Bandaging wounds
Holding the hands of strangers who are in danger,
Sheltering strangers, feeding strangers,
Caring for the poor,
Singing songs of love,
Putting down their guns and refusing to ****
While they pass out water bottles on the battlefield
These are my heroes
And they are still healing
And they are still singing
And they are still loving
And they are still dreaming
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Inhumane was said
Six million dead
Gassed,slaughtered
Degraded
Inhumane we dare
At Jeffrey Dahmer
Kidnapper, killer
Evil embalmer
Inhumane it read
Black man dead
Dragged by his feet
Decapitated
Inhumane we say
A young man who's gay
Found bound,beaten
Left dead in the hay
Inhumane we cry
As so many die
In crumbled buildings
From terror in the sky
Inhumane
I hear say
But only humans
Act this way
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Old Harold lived on the second floor
In a darkened room with an old locked door.
My cousins and I used to tease him there,
And he’d chase us out, give us a scare.
I didn’t know exactly who he was,
“He’s a mean old man,” said my favorite cos’.
“Grandma let him live here after Grandpa died.
She doesn’t even like him and we don’t know why.”
When he was out we would take a peek.
Around the ocher walls and his bed we’d sneak.
There was nothing but an iron bunk
And a glass-front chest filled with lots of junk.
One day Old Harold must have complained
About our pestering…we really were pains!
But no parent’s lecture could keep us away.
And Grandma’s yelling at him not to stay.
Old Uncle Harold disappeared for years.
We would make up stories for littler ears.
But one day my father had news of him.
He lived with “a harlot” and his checks she’d skim.
I was old enough to know what it meant
And asked Dad why uncle Harold seemed bent.
“He was gassed in the War in a field at Verdun.”
Dad told me in a tone that left me stunned;
“And was then sent around to pick up the dead.
With the gas and the horror, his mind just went.”
Now I recalled all the times we had teased
And agonized him when we should have pleased.
But now it was too late to apologize,
He was so lost, he wouldn’t recognize
His grown tormentors, when he hardly
Knew my father, the kindly mentor,
Who visited him every week,
Who paid for anything to make him last,
And reminded him of better times past;
Telling him of the time he caught a butterfly
And brought it to show the girls and guys.
How he wanted to let it fly away,
But when the boys had killed it anyway.
He cried and was called a coward then,
And as my father spoke and wept again.
Old Uncle Harold died alone
In a sterile, cold-floored nursing home.
None but Dad came to grieve
And I, only an hour away, shunned
the feeling and just felt numb,
Until Dad called and told me the story
Of Harold’s death and only then
Could I say, “I’m sorry!” to his ghost.
I should have said it long ago; the one who
Maddened him least repented the most.
If I could say “Sorry” for the times we made him shout.
I realised he’d just have yelled, “Get the hell out!”
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Lips around the base
of a sweetcorn yellow balloon
expanding, turning translucent
its atoms straining, reaching
in a purple attempt to touch fingers
with the next.
Inside, my mirrored breath in lungs
incapacitated
and dry. Sand,
they brought deck chairs and lay
beneath my expanding solar
bubble I am
cultivating, in a gassed
mansion of glass
oblivious. Singed edges
and twisting cells replicating
they laugh in cones and
board planes until there's a
Bellow
And without
Nourishment the balloon
Gulps to die.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 7:56 AM UTC
Perhaps they had tried to escape,
or else done some petty crime.
These three would not be gassed or shot-
The rope would serve just fine.
Two men, one boy with nooses fixed-
condemned but never tried.
The nooses tightened on their necks
as they kicked the air and died.
Except the boy, he was too light
He lingered when they died
“Where is God? ” one man muttered
“Where is He? ” others cried.
They made us all march past the place
Where those three in judgment fell
The boy in his slow agony
still endured his private Hell.
The path we walked was ash and bone
Of former inmates made
Those gassed and buried in the air
These were their sole remains.
“Where is God? Where is He now? ”
Some muttered as they passed.
I thought- if He’s not hanging here
More than likely He’s been gassed.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
my imagination
suffers from excess
yesterday in a dream
I said that I sleep
I ordered personalized matchboxes
I saw the sea
in a plate from soup
I heard how a baton
conducts the conductor
I saw a breast
****** by a child
I uncovered a naked surgeon
on my operating table
and I recognized the voice of ******
among those gassed in auschwitz
by Volker W. Degener translated from the German by Adam A. Zych with Andrzej Diniejko
from The Auschwitz Poems an anthology edited by Adam A. Zych
Jan 16, 2023
Jan 16, 2023 at 3:34 PM UTC
A man got out the lift today
He'd dropped a **** ..then walked away
I did'nt smell it..until i stepped in
But on his face .. he'd worn a grin
So there was i...trapped with this gas
That he'd let rip from out his ***
So now i always take the stairs
So i wont get gassed unawares.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC