please! please! please give me something!
please give me something worth staring at!
i don't want to see this mush, this watermelon pulp
of a smoothie! i don't want to see it! give me something
i can cry over, like the mechanical lullaby from
the soundtrack of Coraline...
give me something worth
lamenting; it's not really poetry
if you're stuck in a rut and
suddenly gesture poetically
like it matters, what are the matters
elsewhere, what is really elsewhere
other than from being stuck in a rut in
a hole, where is the light at the end
of the tunnel? please don't become the tunnel,
let me see the light at the end of it -
i'm sick of peering into tunnels!
but you know what globalisation did,
i can write such ******* on the index
of pixels and feel all the more un-inhibitory;
i can listen to the Coraline soundtrack,
and watch my cat sleep,
and feel no guilt... because the world is
so large, and i rebelled against
globalisation by making it so so small,
it's so small you're not really allowed entry;
if you gained entry you'd feel castrated
or impotent;
like i said to her in her dipping of emotions
slicing her forearm open:
terror is worse than ******
(you can even hear them now, giggling while
being sterilised without an enforcement
to stop using both the contraceptive pill of
varied adverse effects and the anaesthetic
of pleasure that rubber ******* jacket)...
it's spontaneous, there's no apparent
symbolic build-up...
you can hardly expect the Autobahn system
with terrorism...
it just isn't there...
and while she sliced her hand en route the veins
i put the bread in the fridge
because it would provide a longer far away
expiry date...
and wrote that message on the kitchen tablet
in permanent ink...
i only went to a ******* because i was
rejected so many times, if felt natural
that such a profession should exist;
well d'uh, i'm all into speaking till dawn,
but sometimes a little bit of sensuality does miracles!
well, let's say it feels more than wiping your *** clean
after giving birth to a ****...
so there she was with her arm slashed,
and i encircled her wrist with my thumb and pinky
telling her: it's better that you didn't
chop your hand off.
and wearing sunglasses in the night
i learned the bonsai felines don't sleep as much
as you think, the ears are a give-away,
that sonar of theirs always keen to capture sounds,
they just keep their eyes closed,
it's not that they're sleeping,
these doctors of what is the vacuum and the existence
of anti-matter are awake
and try to hallucinate rather than dream,
hence they try hallucinating with their
eyes closed - until the real potent
hallucinations enter their minds while asleep;
dreams, dreams, dreams!
no, she can't be jealous of prostitutes!
she can't be, i paid for the ****** intimacy to feel
irresponsible and impersonal,
she didn't just do the dumbest thing imaginable
and become a pole dancer... no, she couldn't have!
what am i to do now? i've heard that jealousy exist
when you get really personal with a lover
who has a kinder profession than pure ****** exploitation;
but she did say she was abducted for ransom,
and if this isn't a lie, she did the most unselfish act
imaginable to un-servitude herself in a public exhibition
of exploitation... it wasn't a labyrinth any more,
nothing personal... while i got stuck
with music box ceramics of ballerinas twirling to a haunting;
she bought me like a kilogram of peaches
at the marketplace in the afterlife.

We just can't make them
like this anymore.
The skill and craftsmanship
have been sacrificed
on the altar of accuracy
and machines and computers
have sterilised
the smell of hard work and love.

To make such a map
with no satellites, no certainty
meant wallowing in the mystery of the world.
In the space between knowing and supposing
there was a beauty
we may now miss, or deem unimportant.

However,
if I want to get from my house
to your grave, to pay my respects -
through the shopping malls
and bypasses,
the glass and steel towers
you could never have imagined,

I will use my sat-nav
and be grateful for it.

Tumbler in hand,
Without a stem,
Wine slowly warmed in your palm
The carboxyl-laden liquid gold

Daily medicine,
You prescribe yourself
And send your loving wife to pick up
From a clanking pharmacy

Returns
In lilac paper
A present you unwrap
For yourself.

A beauty,
More so than her
Or the daughter you both raised
You cradled your glass instead of her,
Sick, balding, bloated.

In the bathroom
Crying against the locked door
As you shout
To control, stop now
Her unregulated rate of mitosis
That was done in spite against you.
It’s her fault
That you cant fix it.

Unlike a mitral,
You cannot sow, stitch, or glue her in place,
She won’t stay where you put her,
But like this valve -
A pig.

She remembers nights you don’t,
Her memories your hangover
That you’ve grown resistant to
Like a bacteria.
The MRSA of our family,
Washing our hands of you,
Sterilised with alcohol.

it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******* as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*

let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.

The line of freedom was drawn,
fortunate passports found
amongst the rubble of Ground Zero.

The future was not a boot,
more, groping hands through
intimate pockets
and blue light that decimates
the privacy of dreams.

No concentration camps,
Bernays fuelled the fire­
in a wolf's disguise
until the crowd would herd itself.

No Aryan prophecy-
hatred more efficient
when its hands are untied.
Small disparities linger
the stem of deception:

the bottom-feeders are sterilised,
benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed
as ******* palms gather the loot
they lifted through the ceiling.

Sensory comfort provides
the leisure of a clouded mind,
a blood sugar spike,
the Soma of our time.
Under halogen lights
they make love in the high-rise

then labour in sleep
for what love cannot afford.

Continents divide.
Africa: the cold shoulder.
Asia: the factory line.

Oceans swell in neoprene heat
as sling-shots are drawn
beneath a dying star.
Old skull of Palestine,
cross-hairs on the White House
and a contusion in Pakistan.

Doors of perception only open to addiction.
Separate from G-d ,
draw more blood from the ground
like a smoker in the inexhaustible
process of quitting.

A belief in infinity
that will last until the world's end.

The line of freedom was drawn.
Everyone believed that they were on the right side.

You can die from their tears
I check the board to find out
who has passed away the previous night
  and then don my personal protective equipment
  Everything has been rigorously sterilised
 I have forty five minutes to treat and care
  as we sometimes collapse from heat exhaustion      
  I care for the weakest
  first  those who cannot move from their  blood
   **** and *****
  They look at me with such pleading sorrowful eyes
  babies, children, adults, , some have the courage to smile
  I smile back with my eyes
Care is compressing and feeding
to keep up their strength
They must fight this devastating disease alone
  I disrobe and painfully flick my elastic band
  every time I touch my face
We sterilise and sterilise but you can never be sure
  Rarely there is a ray of sunshine
  I have been singing and dancing with little Kaita for days
  behind the yellow fence
  and now she is free to go home
We celebrate any little victories to carry on
  Dear God, I beg you, please make terrifying Ebola gone


  This poem is a tribute to those with Ebola and the thousands of workers who  help them. In January cases are set to rise to a staggeringly sad 1.4 million.

'Now, make sure you've sterilised those instruments well. I want no complications with this one,' I say to my rookie assistant.

I carefully lay out the gleaming stainless-steel blades and check that all is in order. We're waiting on a last minute ***** donation to complete the procedure and although the timing is unorthodox, I'm confident of success. The pleural resection should be reasonably straightforward. If anything, it's the closure that bothers me...and the possibility of problems further down the line.

From outside comes the sound of a vehicle screeching to a halt. Then the kitchen door bursts open. 'Mommy, Mommy, we got it! The last one.' My six-year old holds the bag of chicken giblets up triumphantly. I smile at my father as he appears with the rest of the Thanksgiving groceries and passes them to my son. 'Right, so who's going to help me stuff this bird?'

I want to dig a hole
and bury
the emotions
that rise inside me
for you

I feel sorry when
I see them swell
and rise only to
be met by a silent
stone like shore
of your heart

so I want to dig a hole
and bury the emotions
even before they swell
rise up and come
crashing down

the hole I dig would need
to be quite wide and deep
to contain the range and
depth of emotions that
arise inside me for you

the emotions which you
ignore and don't want to know
the emotions which you
feel but have learnt to un-feel
the emotions which you
browse and carefully skip

once I bury them
in the big hole that I dig
you will never be able
to see them and
will never need to ignore
or feel or skip

then it will be all clean
calm, clear and free
once I have sterilised
my conversations from
all trace of emotions

when I would have
buried them in the
biggest and widest
hole that I can dig

epitaph
eulogy
i write
your life
for all to see
in four short lines
what could have been
sterilised existence
bones picked clean

The untrained eye cannot detect the lies,
is that the fault of the deceivers ?
The untamed liars cannot likewise deny or defy,
the thoughts in the vaults of the everyday dreamers.

The religion of conformity,
a non - choice that some must take.
Heaped upon many a shoulder,
the sullen, they fake, the weak just pay.

The discovery of independent thought,
of being brave and at last feeling strong.
Frowned upon by the would be controllers,
who need you to believe you are wrong.

Carry on, carrying on,
in that same sterilised traditional way.
Applecarts are the place to put your faith,
so everything stays comfortably the same.

The status quo of uniformity,
perfect guidelines, our God to follow.
Taught from a blackboard of empty prophecies,
and shells full of hollow.

Glorify yourself in bygone years,
with testaments of lies filled with tears.
Appeasement is a word that stands quite tall,
designed to grind the smallest even further behind the wall.

Suspicious bonds, rigid lines,
they're never properly identified.
A zigzag mess of a map,
its called being alive,
from birth to death,
oh what a grand design.

Little boy of urges hid, birthed in his mothers
Blood of stagnant death, behold the urges bathed
Him now in. Little one grew with morality taught
Only the Bad must bleed the good must be saved
With the cutting of a sterilised blade.

Blood became his urge as he worked with that
Loved, cherished so much. Oozing off objects
Trajectory of A-, From the exiting wound.
A sawn off shoot gun mouth fed then words
Became thought on everything but his mind.

Night earned my respect for deeds done, in
Silence, like a wasp did it sting then awoken
Upon pictures displayed, and then I spoke.

"Do you recognise those now never to utter words,

"I used to let them talk, but they mostly screamed,
"Swore, told me they'd **** me, really??
"Did they contemplate that they were about be silenced.

All was surrounded, sealed upon plastic and duck
Tape to keep that which spilled, kept in. As the blade
Fell, breath, life drained away. My urge fulfilled and
The bad gone permanently away but death is a clock
And tomorrows a brand new day.

My little playmates in their playground of death
At the bottom of the sea, now others have joined
Living breathing taken them away from me. I keep
Them in essence a blood droplet of final breath, in
My walls how Norman Bates of me.

"Come on son just do the right thing,

"Not now dad were having a meeting,
""He pops up at the most annoying times,

I have killed family, friends, lovers have even
Crossed the path that meets the edge of a blade
That makes lies still and fulfils my urges, they
were good I thought but paths were crossed so
They were ended another droplet spilled.

I love my hobby, who can say they love to ****,
Its only the bad that need to worry for when my
Fever peaks, and so many bad people to ****.

"I look at you, and see a part of me,
"But when you turn silent, I'm nothing like you,

I get a call, close up shop. All neat and tidy, like
No one had been here before. Slowly under the
Seat sealed delivered to my playmates  new
Hidey hole. Now back to work and see what splatter
Awaits that I didn't cause.

"Mmm yep I'd say their dead, as I don't think?
"Don't worry I found their head behind the sofa,

God I love my job, cant get any better than this.

pigeon coo’s echo outside the window
relentless repetition please stop,
grey skies, lacklustre rain
drip drop drips from the sky
like a tap not turned tight
enough

the kettle is screaming at me
fogs up the window
desperate, don’t look out there,
the forbidden fruit, sacred outdoors
sterilised sanitised inside, free me,
I long to ***** my feet

how can the world keep on turning
when we are all so still
does the passing of time matter
during this vast nothingness?

a cup of tea to calm my nerves
hot liquid chases down the fear
bubbling up in my throat but
it just crawls back, and settles
so quiet becomes the house
eternally occupied, no respite

heavier now, thankful for the sound
drowning out the silence, rain
like the white noise, grateful
the sound of breath has become
too much, all of us in mute,
in sound, in colour, in all

even though english is without strict orthographic
obligations of diacritical markers...
that ol' charlie Dickens would cite
a spelling mistake as an orthographic mistake...
best example of orthography:
król kruk - king crow...
the consonants are irrelevant...
just like: whine is not wine...
         or what is to who -
                w(h)at "vs." (w)**: pinch at hues...
that there isn't an asset in the
omni- prefix litany of a monotheistic deity...
omnimemiens - all-remembering...
so: orthography that's still aligned to
metaphysics...
but a new budding term: para-social...
that somehow everything must happen
with and in the confines of: 3rd persons' promise...

all the while towing my libido insomnia:
who needs to be sterilised
with a promise of a stigma of some
mental handicap...
i am peevish about spelling words...
i feel terrible angst if i tease dyslexic freedoms...
what am i? a three-****** camel?

but i get it... churn my genocide *****
*******: opening of the gates for
the tides to merely murmur...
perhaps i'd wait...
and start writing: memoirs...
come old age...
sometimes that worked...
like stale bread works when
it can be soaked up in lard and fried...

it was forever impossible for me to not
not experience the temptation with
monk... ever since i visited Taizé...
i could not escape the allure of what was
on offer...
the remaining temptations of the world
began to itch with a malaise of blasé...
but unlike an orthodox blasé most associated with
firm-rooting... pedestrian same-old-same-old...
it was a blasé (no **** Sherlock...
you could expand that bl-A-sé with a macron...
it would only cost you two omicrons...
or an omega... or a macron above the Alfonce...
Alphonce... abrupt: tease of "alpha")...

good enough hill to pretend the last
breaths of Nero...
a relief from... a fate worse than a slave's...
i.e. a slave implies:
also... another mouth to feed...
sure... someone will cook your food...
someone will clean your house...
tend to your most tender "grievances"...
unless in gladiator pose...
would slaving be deemed so...
irrevocable if... you were to perform...
tasks... that... didn't exactly dehumanise you...
but elevated you to have:
a constancy of a job...
         the security of being needed...

oddly enough i am thinking of taboos...
what is it like, to be truly... needed...
beside what's currently available...
of being: free... but... expendable...
citizen but... relegated should these grand
humanitarian concerns of liberals
shine through for a boat load of "refugees"...

oddly enough... as a slave owner owning
20 slaves... you had a duty to feed those twenty
mouths...
there was talk of people, slaves... being:
assets, possessions...
a much higher status that's what's on offer now...
who are you? an employee...
what's an employee?
something, perhaps a tier above
a cog in a machine... if that...
you know... i've come to admire the ancient roman
concept of slavery...
esp. the sort of slavery experienced by women...
chambermaids... etc.

sure... you're a slave that has been ordained
into constructing an aqueduct...
my brain is exhausted from these petty
scribbles ever since
the monstrosity of commonplace literacy
was made paramount...
i have no original ideas...
i keep this "art" up for my own
"sanctity"... i think of payment like i think
of:

pennies from heaven...
or rather... the fall of the rebellious angels...
one day it might happen... it did?
well then... let's dig up some...
£0.000001 fractions and see where we end up...
there seemed to be some: ortho-social obligations:
once upon a time...
i hear the term: para-social...
which is a sickening, wicked variety of ghost slavery...
it doesn't chain the body...
but i guess... so little worth was placed
on the mind of man that:
so many started to champion their freedom to speak!
without first championing their freedom to think!

****'s sake...
as a slave i would be... an asset... i would be...
property... i would understand the topic of hierarchy...
i could live in the shadows of the *******
kitchen, be chained to it...
without having these bogus allusions
to the illusion of a freedom that would never
come: from me, for me...

as man arranged himself to the best of his ability...
the problem came from higher esteems of
ingratitude for: vivo per se...
foul apples stinking up the ground and grit...
most poignant among the H'arabs with their
harems and polygamy...
walking abortions aside...
cruel little beasts...
not the Arabs per se...
but in general...

this my mechanical arms...
while... 70,000 Africans are waiting in Libya
to be transported to Europe to be
living exemplars of walking ****** for...
because a Gloria Steinem type doesn't care
if her lollipop is choc of chalky vain-villa...
let's be honest...
an African woman that can attract
a whitey copperneck when tanned, lobster...
is a rarity...

even i find the African, MALE... face... attractive...
it can also attest to some tenderness...
yes... "black" men are attractive...
that's my problem with ol' skin-dipping
**** fetish moon's no mercury tinge
drip drip... because all 8" of piston moi is not
up to: **** ***. & I'nah...
if SHE can get away with being attracted
to the Afro-cancockcancock carousel...

why can't i be attracted to black girls?
even Flaubert mentioned in Madame Bovary:
'you'd need to be an artist... to **** a black girl'...
sorry... give me Indian... give me eskimo!
i just find the black physiognomy workable
enough to stand before all that
Picaasso cubism!
why is the masculine black even attractive to me...
while the feminine... isn't?
that's a genuine ******* question...
i'd love to get on that bandwagon
that the white girls are using to settle their:
white people are not racist
so we'll **** as much black-ding-along-doodles
we see fit!

fit for fur? lampshades... armchairs?

it's almost probably not fair...
this inter-racial playground of dips and bops...
would it be oh so necessary to ingest
a blue-pill to ****: that perfected rounded
peach of an *** with pristine
ivory?
but the male African face is so much
more appealing than:
that tarantula: bloated...

it would most certainly cut my efforts of expression
in half could i bypass the already ingrained...
summons for what i'd deem
fuckably: unfathomably, unmoved...
a "concern" for libido insomnia...
neon-tallying and all that happens
"in-between"...

when language is more than graffiti...
how it can exfoliate....
unlike my white brides...
i don't have that ******* option of...
yes... the male African face is appealing...
but the the feminine faces?
******* Gorgons... sea monsters...
Scylla-bred...
for a harem of a cuckoldry...

if the last hard-on i might feel be one
of shame: **** the hard-on...
i don't need to experience that sort of
bollocking to begin with:
i just said your men (African)
are handsome...
what more do you want when it's
a priori: ingrained in me...
to find your women... to be honest:
repulsive?
i don't want to **** them...
if i do: it's a blue moon...
always with the ******* outliers...
and it's not like i haven't tried...
but trying only gives you so much
traction... ****'s sake...

let the party girls do what party girls do best...
i'm not a patriarch:
i have no grief for their freedom being met
with their judgement of what's
to be "best" expressed...

an aristocrat would know what's best:
he would protect his or her...
possession...
funny how herr schlägermann would keep a Boris...
or an Alfred in company...
such were the ties:
people mattered... tied to a hierarchy...
what sort of hierarchy is there:
in a democracy?

no one can summon the pyramid-Δ (delta)...
but somehow... these days...
everyone who's anyone can summon
the pyramid-∇ (nabla) dynamic...
oh look! no Palestinian flag...
just the flag of king David...

- i'm guessing the prophet Muhammad
admired... king Solomon more...
than... he might have admired King David...
he "wrote"... "recited" surahs like
king David's psalms...
yet the focus came... toward converts...
and promises...
what was prophet Muhammad's harem
in comparison to king Solomon's?
a mention of *******...
a ******* solo- project... a fake... an arabian joke!

who are the... Hafiz?
who is Stendhal's Julien Sorel?
Muhammad cared more about imitating
king Solomon than about imitating
king David... it's ******* plain dandy simple as a pimple
on a face of faked smiles... you savvy?

now, of course i'm waiting to be crushed
by the tsunami of man
and the congregation(s) of time imitating water...

if everyone is so... ******* "apparently" free...
there was no more lasting,
binding, contract, beside the slave-owner
and the slave...
permanent employment statures!
what are we doing, right now?
no one is obliged to: oblige anyone to work:
for them...
freedom my ***... more like scavenging
at best...
the odd word... not primordial labour of
hierarchical certainty...
everyone's free! citizen envy!
the *******'re talking about?
it would take a niche of ownership and...
ha ha... clairvoyance to peer into this:
hot heap of **** to see past it...

doubly exploited... ****-wits...
people were: OWNED...
but (by) the term OWNED they were not
"exploited": they were used
to their maximum: ability...
they were tended to...
they were cared for...
a slave had a function... a purpose...
what purpose does freedom allow...
beside the sort of expressions of freedom
only allowed by feral creatures?
am i, a feral creature?

once upon a time freedom implied:
to engage with an unknown world...
the slave was a domesticated creature...
feminine... esque...
have you had the patience to eat food
cooked by women, lately?
just asking... who was the inn-keeper?
she was the harem proprietor for a while...
a madam...
but sure as **** she wasn't the ******* inn-keeper!
was she?

i will find the male african face agreeable
enough for the ***** projects of Helga to take a stab at...
but i really find intra-racial breeding most
agreeable...
i will not **** an african female just because "you"
think it necessary
or that Flaubert might think it as being: "artistic"...

my "one upon a time":
but the males are more attractive...
frau weißschwanorgieanfällig....
oh don'z you'z wozzy you...
the 'ebrews covered themselves, covered...
succumbing the 'ebrew diaspora for the concept
of "nation"... settled dust...

now that the "plague" is in passing...
nothing's new... nothing's old...
in the land of Palestine and Ishreal...
i fed a "passing": then again...
who's to import who?
you might have kept me greasing...
you might have kept me greased...
what sort of an alpha male are you:
now... currently... bowing like every beta sycophant?

you 'ebrews and you 'alestines...
you should 'ave a football match once a month...
to settle your heated blood... scraps of wording:
salad... no?
no... no...        o.k. tease a tonsure with a kippah...
i'll still tell you: the prophet Muhammad ought to
have admired King David more... since... the quran
is to me sung... than he admired Solomon for: for?!
Khadijah turning in her grave...

there have been, there where...
there will be: "myths" from the north...
it's not just some interracial *****... we're told...
oh what we have been told?!
what have we been told?

thank **** my ego collapses...
i own a cat and i like to drink more than
i like to ****...

that's a nutshell statement "all of a sudden"...
i love children as much as
children are required to be adored...
beside my own: that i don't have any?
it's not like i'm limp-****... "freckled"
with absences... of... existential:  purposes...

yeah... yet here we're at.

it's the day before my driving exam and i still don't know how to parallel park. i'm sitting in the passenger seat as my mother drives to our old church. this space no longer holds me. i stare blankly at the bug smeared across the windshield and hope my silence will be mistaken for submission.

we sit in the right wing of the chapel, half way up the staircase. i make eye contact with the girl i made out with last summer in the youth pastor's office. she is all sour cherries, collarbone tan lines, and the taste of salt water on my tongue. she abruptly turns and whispers something to her friend. the friend gasps, clasps her hands together, and starts to stammer, "Dear Lord.."

love the sinner, hate the sin. this love is choking me.

i know they pray for me over melancholic sermons, stale pizza, and gospel songs. then they write slurs on my locker, ***** me, and try to turn me straight all for the glory of God. i wonder if anyone ever thinks to pray for them.

the pastor starts to list things he considers abominations: bruised avocados, atheists, wokeness, his ex wife. my eyes glaze over.

as a child i learned "lesbian" was a bad word before i learned it was a part of my identity. i was taught that my love is inappropriate, immoral, nothing more than a **** category most commonly searched by the same boys that tell me to rot in hell.

thats when it starts, the same speech i've heard my whole life.

i am a sinner.

my sin is love. my sin is loving so deeply that i was able to reframe my thoughts, overcome the preconceived ideas planted in my mind as a child that preached hatred and shame and passing judgement onto strangers.

for once, i do not stay. i do not endure it. i stand up, fix my skirt, and climb over my mother, her eyes fixed on the pastor, nodding along. i walk out of the chapel and 2.1 miles down the highway. my mother does not come after me.

there are parts of me that she does not know how to love and has no desire to learn how.

my family always jokes that the dog is my mother's favorite child. i watch the way she meticulously brushes her fur, holds her when she cries during storms, and loves her regardless of the mud dragged down the sterilised corridor of the house.

i take comfort in knowing she cares about something, i just wish it were me.

I know how you feel, but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities they took you from your home
To a unknown place, they took me from my home just across the road

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you survived the WW2 **** concentration camps
I am in a mental health hospital in 2018 today alive

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities some of you survived to have children
I have been sterilised just like some of you too

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you have been used in torturous experiments and research
Without consent, some died, like you I am alive

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you had freedom taken away from you
In 2018 my freedom has been taken with my privacy too

I walked down the lanes of a familiar town,
A beautiful haze, a colourful maze
Of people old and young,
Of scenes jovial and bright,
Of happiness shared and upsets spared,
Of dreams realized and nightmares sterilised.
I walked through it all, through them all.
Through the smiles and the cheer,
Of the beauty and the innocence,
Of harmony and friendship,
Of the Christmas red, of another beginning bred
Of the untouched and the impure,
Of the rehabilitated state of sweet and sour.
I walked through it all,
Like a shadow.
There yet not there.
A dark unnatural blot in the natural beauty of it all.
Never belonging anywhere like a door left ajar,
I stick my hand out, so near yet so far.