"Nothing but window dressing for a soul.",
Buk says, dropping his pants for the crowd.
The crowd roars. Some sit with an embarrassed look
on their faces. Some
are poker-faced, showing no hands. Some look
like the already dead, turning away.
"You can't hide yourself in poems, you can't
buy yourself a hot-assed seat in the Promised Land.
You've got to see the elephant for what it is.
You've got to....."
He trails off just as two men approach from either side
of the podium (after all, he's the one who set the stage!)
The thought police were figments of his imagination, and I've forgotten
how to end this poem but I think it had something to do with how the dead
can talk through us.
Comments
bullet scarred and the feather tarred
trees absorb the wounds like flesh
folded over and hardened
like mountians tumbled
like a ridge against clouds
how many sniper taking
counting
how many talking tanks
and vest coveted specialists
writers and broadcasters
the walls have ears
the cafe is a tempest pot
simmering behind the
super sharp shades
and stages for the crimes
of martyrs
and heros
clown activists
supression hot as a spotlight
falling down
the cascade rivers
of words that will
always find their way
like rain
like rivulets
crawling
Thank you, brilliant poet! ~A
Thank you, brilliant poet!
~A
''You've got to see the elephant for what it is.''
The embracement /embarrassment,
must be man's,
B’coz elephants have 48 inchers,
yes!
Man’s by now you all know
Ele’s ...Solid muscle,
Did you know?
And
a bucket full of semen
and
oozing more...
Man’s by now you know...
Exposed.
And all it is is what we are, not embarrassed by what I am, nor what anyone else is, we are all humans.
Having drawn many people of different shapes and sizes, nothing much embarrasses me, but if it is done to be vulgar, or show off, I would just walk away with a wry smile on my face.
Otherwise I don't understand it all. An interesting subject.
Ann