Yet another day 2
2
There never was a garden,
nor any snake to tempt the beauty,
just a desire to blame it on the mother.
Religion is wet male dream
with women in their place
that they may serve
insolent man in his ways.
It was with Sumerian cuneiform
men took control of business
and piracy first saw the light,
slaves were introduced into economy.
The cult of motherhood
died at the sword of the market
where Cyclopes of greed breed.
He is the sea salty thumb
in the blue sore eye,
in the fat, fairy illusion
of a world without consistency,
where weapons of deadly distance
don't make beautiful pictures on CNN.
The death of innocent women and children
are simply forgotten by the those who gain.
The enemy gets what it deserves,
civilian or not.
They are not white,
they don't live next door,
their dying do not make the news.
Second class citizens lay
in the coffins of the parade,
the prosperous prosper,
the poor pave the way,
sweat in shops and die too young.
The storm did not do a good job.
Soon there will be more fury
rolling in from the sea;
annoying, shanty town dwellers,
grey and groveling,
longing for the obliteration
of Christian hypocrisy.
The less fortunate ones,
the ones of the wrong color,
wrong creed or wrong place,
are ghosts in Arlington
mumbling in wet despair;
principles of free air
crumble and die
beneath the worlds boots.
Death is an aged companion
reinterpreting all regret,
paving all days with dejection,
preparing for a different frame
where one may crumble in peace
with words of obliteration
and a smile of bone.
The cursed mile is not endless
as you melt into the grassy mound
with no memories of loss
in a dying autumn day.
The sudden fall of a head stone
marks the collapse of rulers and war.
A civil suit, broken on a windy street,
howls to oppressive tenants,
snarl in favor of more money,
tears the day
out of its dreary context.
Persecuted for centuries
the family hides their precious salt
in the shadows wagons,
the lost camp fire playing
in suburbs with no hope,
struggles with grandchildren
and oppressors.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-09-23 at 22:58
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