"ghraib" poems
Your American woman,
unveiled, in tight clothing.
Kicking naked men, in a pile.
How would you woman
like to be naked, in a pile with me!
How would you like it to be rolling around
on the floor naked, with your body touching mine
Naked!
Taking pictures and laughing
you are so seductive,
your wickedness,
and our naked bodies!
One day I will lock you up,
and strip you down, Naked!
and take pictures of you!
With your supple flesh,
and painted lips,
your tight pants!
Kissing, kissing in public,
and taking pictures of our naked bodies!
Merciful Allah!
Death to all infidels!
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
I’m writing a paper on the Stanford
Prison Experiment, which now connects to Abu Ghraib;
one set of men walked into a plaything, a basement
in the bottom of a University, and could quit
at anytime; and roll into fresh mattresses
again,
but when it came
a second time round, and there was another reason
to be afraid, what happened
was different;
no get out clause in the basement
just the hands of mindless hearts
of those already
too numb
to do anything different
when down there.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
His teeth were ochre pebbles
From the smoking of His pipe—
He bowed down to my bleeding feet
And sang God-awful tripe
“Life is but an odyssey,
Can’t you open your eyes and see?
A lot of it is smoke and mirrors
But the rest is truly ecstasy!”
He tapped my crimson, gushing foot and got up from His knees
To sit down in His musk-rose bed where He settled His old head.
My face began to boil red until I could no longer contain my head and I burst out
at my Old Man hoping it’d make blood flood from His hands!
“Just who the **** do you think you are, God?
How can you say you see?
You know nothing of the Earth
And the nightmares that it breeds!
Did you notice Abu Ghraib,
the torturers’ many ways?
How theft is easy for gangsters
While children starve for days?
Puh!
You just sit here on your musk-rose
Cuddling its soft, fuzzy petals,
You’re nothing but a spoiled child
Who has never desired to run wild!”
And at this, Father whispered from his bed,
“Capricious, I have been
But I cannot be blamed.
People choose their lots in life
For free will is their fame.
If I gave them acres of land and
a home that doesn’t weather,
their bones would turn to tether.
You think I owe everyone the world,
And all the fruit it grows,
But the sweetest peach you reach yourself,
And this you already know.”
When my Father’s words had stopped
My eyes caught the throbbing wounds;
The skin blanketed the open flesh
And Dad said, “The infection won’t heal soon.”
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC