death in Yugoslavia...
furtherfield
info at furtherfield.org
Tue Aug 28 15:51:16 CEST 2001
death in Yugoslavia
(killing by numbers)
as the wind stretches
it yawns
across broken lands
brushing over lost bodies
disparate and battered
blown
scattered into a
state of timeless disposability
who knows how much human body-waste
the wind has witnessed
as histories soul bleachers
educators of the singular
create yet another bombast, carnage path
for others to unwillingly adhere to
this wind
part of the nature scene
has seen
too many things
if only it could blow away all the pains
cleanse this shabby place of places
it blows through
above and over
not able, unable to change
what is blown apart
a crumpled psyche
in a world dissected by mythology
dreams and ideals
tired inventions and pretensions of what could be
and some have been too willing to be
what they cannot be
Yugoslavia
is
a dying bird
us
the other birds
watch...
flapping around hovering
in the wind
waiting to see
which way
the wind will blow
all birds
are mortal
waiting for the drop
short of breath
short of sky
the creature
could do nothing
but cry
as days passed
the beak would peck at the glass
trying to peck through the window
wanting to escape
the trap
it yearned for flight once more
others
outside
flew by
looking in
unable to break
the spell of
what was cast
it's wing flapped hitting out
in frustration, crazed
morals come and go
yet we will never know
why we waste our time
creating each one of them
shadows collude
and move
around this place
as night cloaks
the scenery
in here
as the feathered martyr rests
slightly jittering
holding onto
the last embrace
time grinds on
leaving the dead behind
to become
mere memories
as life rushes ever onwards around it
the bombing
has paused.......
here lies a dying woman
not just a woman
but a woman
who knows
the wrath of
insecure
masculinity
she thinks......
are we all merely
headless lost creatures?
here I lie
one leg less
and many dreams less
if only the tears
that that I churn
could fill
the gap
blown asunder
are we tomorrow's ghosts
laying down snares
for future lives?
dead is gone
lost is not found
end is - fin
and the wind
it still blows
it still moans
stretching
it's invisible limbs across the
battered lands
oh surely
there's hope
once we've realized
the loss of hope
but still the bird
is trapped
caught between
non reason and hope
dangling on the gropesome
x mark's
the spot
mapped out
worn out
and the wind?
It still blows.....
marc garrett - street poem 98.
pasted up on steeet walls in frustration of witnessing
males creating more carnage for the human race.
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