There seems nothing more civilised than the management of savagery,
remote and air conditioned.
Once separated from its delivery by sail boats and oceans,
by wax seals and emissaries.
Now only satellites and microwaves disperse the shock waves.
Cobra delegates are traumatised in real time as targets fall,
their lattes cool as does their blood
but “Fair Trade” product keeps their conscience clear.
We on the other hand are tools of necessity,
clinically educated…cold as hollow points.
Through us their message flows like the bullet through the barrel,
the recoil never reaching back to them, is lodged in us.
Go-Pro Call of Duty whores, accountable only for our failures,
Justifying the absence of target acquisition.
So sorry that we failed to kill for our sleeping masters,
sorry that they wake to the news of survival not death.
And now with that memory, we cannot sleep or face our children,
I can’t vote without the bile rising from my gut.
That my mark for them permits them murder,
that my hands can never wash clean.
Yet they stand clear and free of my crimes,
they absolve themselves of my savagery
and look on me the savage,
that I be somehow dead yet still alive.
Good morning folks. A little follow up to my video posted the other day, I wanted to say that admitting to bad behaviour in itself does not “make it alright” it is not an apology in itself, that would be something else. Also it is risky being honest, people easily and sometimes purposely misinterpret things, In the latest rambling I said I stole my fathers car which could be understood to be I took it for multiple reasons. I borrowed it without asking never meaning to take it permenantly, technically not stealing but maybe TWOC for those who know what that is. Anyway, it’s out there now lol. I am posting this “Specials” song “It doesn’t make it alright” although the sentiment of the song is not exactly what I am referring to here, the tag line of the title applies. Admitting is not in itself enough, it might be the start of the right path. Anyway…it doesn’t make it alright folks.
He sniffed at Miles Davis in his Pompous English way
but doffed his treasured cap to the tunes of Sid Bechet,
who himself was not a stranger to the pulling of a trigger,
though to one as mean as he was he’d have been a lowly “Nigger”
From High windows he could survey other lesser forms of life,
those toads and grubby proles mired in their strife.
In his literary palace alphabetically displayed
he would charge his poison chalice with words so cruelly made.
The face is broke against the wheel,
diamond shard peppered flesh.
Now bloody pulp, once squeezed to life
between thighs of painful birth,
between creation of hope and the damnation of men.
Lips as blue as Iceberg Oceans
cannot one single word now form,
not one goodbye, no gratitude nor regret,
no moment remembered,
nor one remaining to forget.
Yet some sweet Mothers final kiss will brush against its brow,
a child’s unknowing memory
might reminisce somehow,
how once it held the world encompassed in a smile
before ever it was vacant before ever quite so vile.