"guillotines" poems
Beach Goths melting into black puddles
The tide's coming in
It shimmers like a heavy metal
Crucifix
Paste wasted as it saturates in glitter
The sun's warm pallor on the purest white
Foundation
UV rays penetrate like
Guillotines, ghoulish things
From a bygone era
There's a hearse parked in the sand
The tide's coming in
For quite a maudlin little oil spill
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Eyelids descend like a guillotine,
decapitating the visual stimuli
my mind engrosses upon in daylight.
Then there is a numbness as the
cascading representations of my
day are all rendered darkened silence.
"My day is colour, my dreams are black and white,
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
Bow
before
the wolf king.
Lunar crown reign
midnight is my cloak;
the forest is my throne.
Kinship my only counsel
lupine sapience, eyes aglow
this grin a gala of guillotines
for those that would question such majesty.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Hands like guillotines
sever ties
flee fleeting moments
of traumatic scenes
and gay parades
on ink-stained clouds
blushing like mushrooms
tinted by the sun.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
PART I – BORN TO CHAOS AND IMPRISONMENT
Imagine –
Being born in a decade of hate,
Of fear of being attacked, front and rear,
Of sleeping with one eye open,
A present reality that is far from golden –
It is a nightmare of self-perpetuating terror.
Welcome to Palestine;
The land where the dogs of war
Come to feast and dine.
70 years of violence;
70 years of resilience.
Millions killed or displaced,
Homes vacated but never replaced,
Not even by those who got out alive,
Scrambling to rebuild, desperate to survive.
For how can you not be enraged and stupefied
When your country’s being erased
And hopelessness is causing suicides?
How can you not throw stones and riot
When your own government kills you
And then proceeds to alter the story or deny it?
That is the reality
That Mohanad Younis was born into;
One of many, a broken generation,
Born with a noose around their neck,
Betrayed and forgotten as a nation.
Desperation was an eternal companion,
A sibling, practically,
Always with them like the Colorado River with the Grand Canyon.
Mohanad was a bright, industrious soul;
A voracious bookworm, with the hunger to swallow a library whole.
Dostoevsky, Dickens and Euripides,
Amongst many others;
A young man who wrote his own tales,
Perhaps keen to escape reality,
Or encapsulate it if all else fails.
When guillotines rain down from the sky,
When prayers are said but your god(s) don’t even reply,
No author, nor their best tales,
Can overcome the missile storms and the bullet hails.
This will be the story
Of Mohanad Younis,
The beloved writer who killed himself
Because all else really did fail.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
I'm
Done
I simply
Refuse
To be
Pretty.
Cute, maybe
Adorable, sure
I could stand a shot at
Beauty.
But I will
Not
I repeat
Not
Conform to
Pretty.
It's surely
Nice to be
Pretty
But I'd rather
Take my
Sincerity
Or hilarity.
And I won't
Sacrifice my
Dignity for
Regularity.
Pretty faces are
For sale at a
Dime a dozen on
Our magazines
But I'm looking for
More than eyeliner
And lipstick
Guillotines.
I moved past
Pretty
Lost my shot at
Perfection
When I found a
Crack
In my gritty reflection.
Not to say I'm giving up
On my beauty intention
But woman cannot survive
On wardrobe interventions.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
I dream of living to see the next revolution,
And of the men who will not live through that revolution,
Of the air humming electric static heat in anticipation of the inevitable riot,
Of the holy barricades standing in defiance of Heaven,
Of the enlightened kicking down the doors with guns and masks, asking;
"ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE PROBLEM OR ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION?"
Of gallows for the dogs of war,
Of guillotines for the capitalist pigs,
Of a firing squad for every reactionary content to oppose the wheel of history even as it crushes their bones down to nothing,
Of the end which justifies the blood staining the cities red as the hammer and sickle cells that divide and multiply fevered in the streets,
Of the ghosts of iron men long dead still insisting that we take not one step back,
Because men get arrested, animals get put down
And God,
God made them as stubble to our swords, boys
And with blades clenched between their teeth so climb the dregs of the Earth to the surface to taste the apples they shook from the trees,
In 24 hour news cycles the slogans repeat to infinity:
"NOT RESISTING ARREST"
"NOT COMMITTING A CRIME"
"I WAS NOT A THREAT, WHY DID YOU TRY TO **** ME"
You can only force people to paint the smallest target possible on their own backs for so long before you end up in the crosshairs
I have seen the faces of my saints painted on the walls of eternity -
Of Trotsky, million headed proletariat staring daggers through the hearts of the tsars,
Of Cromwell, crusader for the ungovernable force of will,
Of Robespierre, headsman of divine terror riding on the wings of the Angel of Death,
I have seen the end and the means played out in countless dramas across millennia,
And the only question that remains unanswered is this:
Are you gonna be a part of the problem or are you gonna be a part of the solution?
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
New York City has just published
the Doomsday Book.
Highlights include:
* They will ration life saving medicine.
Sarah was right. They have convened
the death panels.
* They will enforce quarantines. They will
separate the infected from the unaffected;
hoping the infection of fascism
spreads into the mind
of the entire
body politic.
* They plan the destruction
of domestic animals.
Even little Joey's
Teddy Bear will not
be spared. As
we speak,
its furry head
lays upon their
guillotines of
justice.
* They will seize property. The
thieves running the county
are carefully planning
a final plunder.
* They will search our homes.
They see us living in our
glass cages. There is
nothing left to monitor;
but we will all be
compelled to make
daily entries
into our
Facebook
accounts.
John Q Public
believes these
measures
are good.
The terrorists
frighten his
banal
imagination.
His sound
reasoning likes
the idea of
another brick for
our prisons of fear,
another bar
to strengthen our
cages of **********
Music Selection:
Rory Gallagher,
Walk on Hot Coals
2/16/11
Oakland
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
A pallid page: laid out for guillotines
Of chickenscratch all frantic in a trek
Across that indifferent monstrosity.
The lines ascend, but tend to end a wreck.
This certain fate stalks they who brave the Blank:
To crumple and to crease, to never cease
‘Till but the wiliest, weathered words remain,
Stalwart, scarred; final heralds of the peace.
What end is sought in this warmongering?
That question’s murk curses humanity.
Minds have been known to yield to stronger things…
the dinner bell, perhaps insanity.
Yet brave these squabbling syllables we must
Else face the terror of collecting dust.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
Giles Corey
What is there, really,
Left to say
When you cannot trust
The honest pay?
Do you, really
Hear the sounds,
Of the clocktowers
coming down?
I do not, really,
Know the time.
We're just acquainted..
No friend of mine.
No friends at all
Are mine, per say.
Just folks to call,
From day to day.
From day to day,
And dusk to dusk.
There's nothing left
But empty husks.
I'd gouge my eyes
With forks and knives,
If that would bring me
To Saint Ives.
Gouge my eyes
At sight of her
Hopes I despise:
empty aquifer.
That saturate the souls
Of bedazzled bums
And homeless ******
Sent to pick the crumbs.
Great fallen father
Oh, dying mother
What way is water?
Who hid the shelter?
Your sons and daughters
Are frightened now.
They cannot win
They don't know how.
We all have fears
Of how we'll fare
When you say,
"We need more engineers.
To build the cities
And the gutters
And the gluttons
And the guillotines
And the gilded glaves that gorey Giles brings.
To pile the stones
On our frail young frames
As we're forced to cry
To **** our names,
"More weight."
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
Face first
into the pasty mud
too weak to crank myself up
too ashamed to continue hugging earth
but we all hug our mothers when we're hurting.
Finally risen from the pit
Face up, proud, and defying
I gave him my stony gaze
Face caked with loam
He sneers
I could swear there are
canines in all gum roots
as he speaks
tongue dancing to farce
I hope he guillotines the messenger
He utters
you look pretty when you wear
the ****
He thwacks me deadly
I tip and tumble
right down
down
It is the betters years now
I've soared up, up
up
and now people wear mud
for me
not on faces
not that I'd care
I'm paying them, after all
after all, I'm not buying their souls
after all, they want to be here
they're happy
and after all I've been through
It's high time someone takes the mud
for me... and then
I see her
Red hair rippling in radiant sun
casting glints of desire I catch with
hungry eyes
Her skin pale as pearl
Her face speckled like rich mineral
Her features delicate and strong
Her eyes, sharp and bright and silhouetted, like
windows to a garden,
yes,
green eyes.
I've tasted never
I've spoken never
of such quibbles as love,
but her beauty is the embrace
I've never known
It's all a shimmering flow
a cascade of fluid memory
the quenching of things
not known to be thirsted
My eyes open to a path
I've just found the will
to traverse in peace.
Yet, like Jack and Jill,
we go tumbling down
down
the hill
and...
It's a wedding anniversary
not ours
because silence
and delirium imbibed
is preferred on such occasions
I smile
She glances
and sighs deep
unearthing cavernous
voids
of misery
caked on memories
of bittersweet mysteries
called love
It is only in the mirror that,
with those windowed eyes,
she gazes with scorn, pity
a truth meant for me
Shame crushes my heart
heartbeat pulsing like
a crumpled soda can
rattling on empty road
With languid brushstrokes
she applies the mascara
You look pretty when you wear
the ****
I said
The pin drops
and with it
the canvas...
One man's trash is another's face
We can find solace in the
shattered remnants
of our dreams,
or we can challenge
the very precepts that
assured our rightful happiness
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
.
From their private jets,
The primal privileged
Spot a spark earthwards,
The glint of the rolling
Out of guillotines.
Guillotines so tall, waiting,
Just for them and they know
It was coming, as they know
They have it coming.
The rabble they so despise,
Yet pander for as they pull
Wool and leave all in cold,
The wretched who someday
Read injustice in the leaves,
The Princes of sham, cloven,
Always bearing woven bags,
Carpet dreams of desperate,
Down trodden, never fearing
To be trampled, till the blade
Is shining in the searing light
Of new day.
For retribution is a fable
The reptilian upper classes
Are cold to see as it strikes,
Their forked tongues,
Eventual as slimy winter
Strangles themselves
In a hollow cave,
Unmarked.
Even the dirt is soiled
With their fame, their
Scaled names, even
Sun will not shine
On the bloodied blots
They have wrought.
Such murderous stiffs,
Who enslaved all warmth
And empathizers in a rug
Fit for a tomb. And all their
Art as false as they!
The earthy shall rise
And salt their mortal
Wounds, songs will not be sung
For the indifferent masters
Who now pour into streets
Made for severed muck.
The only beauty they left:
Opulent, soppy-red coiffured heads
As they roll on the potholed,
Sooty pavements.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
~
Sluggish, my eyes barely focus,
headlights seem faint
through this cracked windshield
in heavy traffic, bending lanes
with detour signs collecting travelers
like gas station snow globes,
displayed in between blurred white lines
Monstrous *** holes shake me awake
from the thoughts crawling
deep within a weary mind,
a casualty of a night to forget
which will not soon be forgotten
as digital numbers, glaring red
catch my eye and I see…5:38
Darkness engulfs the cab of this truck,
dash lights cringe and flash hypnotically,
out of round tires draw skid marks
on a lonely winding pavement
As my feet fall through the floor boards,
scraping on glass shard encrusted asphalt
bleeding beyond the speed limit
White knuckles grip the wheel
while doors become giant guillotines,
slashing at faux leather seats, exposing rancid foam leaking
battery acid on the engine’s severed heads
Everything begins to spin, losing control,
a bright flash and I shift to see…5:39
and the sun comes out presenting a beautiful day
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
i remember
(a pluchritudinal memory)
when almost so effortlessly
our lives lied to us most indefinitely
in the hours that return with
lashes and chains—
as in clothes heavy soldered
to washlines, the waft in the air is as familiar as the rain cooling
the blades of grass you speak of,
something the dark only conjures
waiting at the brink of my unclosed retina.
i know all of these well-placed memories
like furniture you have arranged
under the hollow hands of the home.
yet barely even so, a fond memory of—
the daedalus outside or the cut
gladiolus, plucked out of the moseying hour's vicious wingtip.
we do not always die like this.
when all our dying whispers are thrusted
underneath mouths of stone,
when all of our wishes hold a flame
paler than a vague rekindling of the dead.
sometimes promised something an ellipsis would half-ponder and postpone
in word's mid-birth.
the raging moon had waned.
all the windows shunned — hermetic,
air outside potent, leaving all books
half-read yet fully opened.
the children hide behind thin shades
of roses,
i can hear the steely grit of the flesh
pared from the bone as my mother
guillotines with kitchenware
we do not always die instantaneously.
most of our ways to go leave
demarcations on soul — something so easily displaced, doubled array of its arrival into half-wakefulness.
something only a last prayer thumbed
down to the last bead
and we cannot cry anymore.
night's flumine seeks to rebuild the wound undone delicately
leaving my breath and betraying my body.
we somehow always die like this.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
.
Sluggish, my eyes barely focus,
headlights seem faint
through this cracked windshield
in heavy traffic, bending lanes
with detour signs collecting travelers
like gas station snow globes,
displayed in between blurred white lines
Monstrous *** holes shake me awake
from the thoughts crawling
deep within a weary mind,
a casualty of a night to forget
which will not soon be forgotten
as digital numbers, glaring red
catch my eye and I see . . . 5:38 am
Darkness instantly engulfs the cab of this truck,
dash lights cringe and flash hypnotically,
out of round tires draw skid marks
on a lonely winding pavement
As my feet fall through the floor boards,
scraping on glass shard encrusted asphalt
bleeding beyond the speed limit
White knuckles grip the wheel
while doors become giant guillotines,
slashing at faux leather seats,
exposing rancid foam leaking
battery acid on the engine’s severed heads
Everything begins to spin, losing control,
as I finally screech to a halt at a stubborn traffic light
When I glance to my right and I see her,
singing along with her radio,
more beautiful than any song I’ve ever heard
She notices me staring and smiles,
then rolls down her window and blows me a kiss,
I roll down mine as she points to a little coffee shop
and says, “Care to join me?” I nod in agreement
I once again catch a glimpse of the clock . . . 5:39 am,
but suddenly time no longer matters
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Open smiles were fading away
As the seeds grew into trees
Innocent babies falling on the mother
Foreign guillotines flying free
The river of blood flowing by her
Mother’s sons are rising too
Fiery eyes blinded by the sister
You were a part of it too
Open your eyes and look up at the sky
Oh Mother we won’t let you cry
Your salty tears gushing down the rivers
Will bring your boys back home to life
Pretty birds will sing out for you Mama
We’ll build a heaven around you
MA!
All the toys were stolen by the father
And the children suffer in loneliness
One ******* gone brings around another
Our pockets overflowing with emptiness
Sad little sister fears the brother
She can’t hug mama all alone
Left to kiss the feet of the mother
She has lost her way back home
Its time to wipe your tears ma
Its time to forget your fears ma
Its time for me to come home ma
Its time you were not alone ma
Its time to….
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 11:21 AM UTC
times getting closer listen well
end of times in nearer than one thought
being called home is no lie
soon the horizon will change
life as one knew it will forever change
death camps coming water winding down
by plan not being natural weather
got changed by man chemicals
changing the position of the
coming rain for the west
rain not coming either
trains to the death comp
are in place to depopulate
a large mass of people in these United States.
Graves already dug caskets lined up in rows
guillotines sharpened in place too.
This change is less than a year away
my words are true about Agenda 21 check
yourself on the internet.
By the way the chip is next red 666 on the arm if you refuse
no buying or selling or trading.
If you take the chip you will lose your soul and
never see God.
If you still refuse the other choice is head chopping
with the guillotines
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?
a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails
anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;
my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead
humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization
the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 7:59 AM UTC
Sweat soaks our collars
Sons speak with fathers
Mothers wring
Their hands of spring
The temperature is rising
Distant news of fighting
Speak of revolution
Peak of evolution
Matches set to fire
Flames on the bridge grow higher
No retreat
None we need
Voices in the night
Torches quell their fright
So it begins
Road to the end
They watch from their windows
Down the ramparts we assemble
Voices boom
Speak of their doom
Soon we dawn our armor
Soldiers made from farmers
Say goodbye
To this life
Guillotines are raised
But hearts are still ablaze
Filled with hope
We march the slope
Archers man their stations
Swords shake with frustration
Soon we move
To save you
Blades against the evil
Arrows fly with eagles
Walls torn apart
All for your heart
The faces of their generals
Grim against the rebels
Away they fly
Oh they try
Drawbridges have fallen
Wounded they are calling
For a truce
To stop the coup
Don't enter the basement
They will offer any payment
But I know
You're down below
A room made of chains
Heavy with your pain
I cut through
My sword true
A ballad for the ages
Played on all the stages
They remember
That cold December
When a boy became a man
With faith he took a stand
A love for you
Was all he knew
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
Forgiveness taking far too long
Knife out and in my hands
My own judgement tasting wrong
Back and blood understands
Using to sharpen wit but not
Hurt anyone
Zero exceptions
No matter if they ought
Harm myself is my intention
Their heads in false guillotines
Hair drenched in sweat
Manage to turn my cheek
Wrong that this pain I let
They are supposed to care
The ones who betrayed
Just expected them to be there
My feelings were played
Until understanding why
Heart will keep bleeding
Alone continue to try
Never made progress in succeeding
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 12:53 AM UTC
Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP. DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 9:50 AM UTC
Here is the vond vedette,
Here are the congeries scopulous at the alluvion combe - a serow discovers a yawn
Within its palm. Electrical storms redd over this mountain's peaks its verbs, spate it's cwms. Lichen flux ecesis, caught in the current towards veridity.
A verderer hazed by chessile guillotines, naves hain- dwindling grike of corrasion
Indomite lithoids behooving one's obstacle of self, set by sanguine puerile innocent knosps. While the eyes howk that merriment of skin-cleft sensations into the reweaved aureoles, those many colored plumes of split flowers, which open into brightly singing dactyls of these grieving bield and obscene vocations. To the gulch of one thousand bells, and only the passive nestling interstices to anoint them
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
Wake! Kokura to a novel world of peace
Under the canopy of dark divine clouds
A million deaths and a zillion days of sufferings
Ah! Flown to a distant land
While the holy hands patting your shoulders
Away Nagasaki crying,
… a loud ghostly cry..
When the fat boy shed fireballs from above
Flitting shadows unable to find a cwtch
Death solidified, melted to florid streams
On a boundless billowy sea of hellfire.
Murky minds killing unknown souls
Burnt alive was innocent, wicked and wise
On their knees, a nation bend
Away victory cried,
… a loud cheerful cry…
Ah! Know me first before you please
to squander guns, grenades or guillotines
At least the cognizant me die in peace,
And a better predilection for your choicest blessings.
Silent guns are a hackneyed dream
Begging only for a better aim
Away hope loath to stop,
.. a loud wishful cry…
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 4:49 AM UTC
*They say that the moment you enter heaven: you'd see light,
It has not been so long since I've seen a shed of something bright.
With a ****** feet, walking down this street which feels like an oval,
Have I been here before? Maybe yes, maybe no.
It's like an endless journey through every portal--no matter where I go.
A repetitive memory remains in this rusty old mind of mine,
It's a face of a man who's silently watching me pass by.
Is this familiar face from my father? Who's now hiding a smile.
Every time I try to think harder, the more my head aches.
Is this some kind of a sign as to why my heart breaks?
Dead leaves fall faster, raining me with their misery.
Sudden cries from different miles, as if to tell their history.
Shadows and shadows seem to engulf upon each other,
Electric chairs, guillotines and gallows scatter everywhere.
Running into an abandoned house, I ran for the stairs.
Why do they all appear familiar? Have I been here before?
Looking down, I walk-run through the infinite dark corridors.
Poppa always said that when lost: always turn right.
But why doesn't anything changes when I turn my sight?
Uncertainty has turned the calm in me into a fright.
And so I told myself for the next turn: I'd go left.
The curve was nearing, and the floor starts to get all set.
It was quicksand on living carpet, and poison in thin air.
There's a door, no, a hatch. And as I enter, I just stared.
My white walls, white toys and white bed all painted blood red.
There's a man on the bed fixated on a little girl's lifeless body--naked.
I took a step back and stepped on shards of glasses that yells struggle.
The man suddenly took form of a monster, slowly looking above his shoulder.
It was déjà vu, it was everything under my skin, it was all like just before.
The hatch threw wildly open, ******* everything it can and make it go.
Know when they say that the truth shall set you free?
It probably hasn't worked yet its magic on me.
In here, time is endless and darkness can see.
And by the time I remember everything all over again,
I'd be still the same lost little girl: daydreaming of heaven.*
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
The silence was sinister, as if, sound had lost its vocal chords,
the days arrived and sunsets painted the sky in crimson
and gold leaf ensembles of artists dreams.
While they sat around a table, document drivers ran around
pushing agendas, translating armageddon scenarios
if the other side raised a finger or pulled a trigger.
So the sulky diplomats sat like doormats where
the national feet were wiped upon and trust was invested
in their stupidity. Harvard education, pin-striped suits
with loud aggressive neckties announced their status
to TV crews and intrepid journalists, hanging on every word
like guillotines, to ravage the leading newspaper stories.
Headlines were deadlines. Diplomats drummed
up side angles for photographic faces to appear firm
and responsible to the taxman's money.
Here they gathered
with their policy whisperers awaiting for a signal
to open their loaded dialogues of positions and
policy shifts. Yet no one said a word.
The silence, for once, kept all the mouths shut
( one wished permanently!)
no one said a word for 3 long hours,
but they sipped chilled water, took notes of nothing
glared at each others sides and took notes
again of what was not said.
At the stoke of two, when the clock belted
a twang and the echo bounced through
many empty heads, the diplomats rose
to call it another day of negotiations.
The cold war had just had its 9th meeting.
Author Notes
The Revolution says little, but the war take sides. Diplomats are busy 'discussing' how to end the war, and find a solution. Their policy positions are so entrenched, that little happens. The silence is as loud as could be. Meanwhile, the guns boomed and little childrens playgrounds were pock-marked with cluster bombs. Lines of refugees, walked up the mountains seeking shelter in neighbouring towns. The cold war complemented the heat war that was raging on the battlefields of doom. Please stay indoors.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC