Poem: The Real

 The Real

it hurt it hurt it hurt

the lack of heaven

in the violation of the sky.

 

it hurt hurt hurt

 

the blurbs and fairytales

which politicians peddled

lapped up by legions  

of unthinking thought.

 

the lies 

never even entered the outer 

perimeter of the real,

or bore witness to the poverty

in the pits between the skyscrapers. 

 

if there was a real god,

one who wasn't an ideological leash,

she was chastised, marginalized,

 

consigned to the crippled and naive,

tolerated yet flimsy,

saddled with the subversive task

of debunking a eucharist

of White Wonder Bread.

 

the politicians,

they had precise knives for tongues,

and cut diamonds of hate 

from the religious fat.

 

they slashed to slay

the quests of ethics,

spilling out blood

to swill the scarlet wine of rage.

 

below the pulpit on the golden hill,

the coinage and oink-honks

of the valley responded,

ravenous and intoxicated.

though unmentioned, 

violence was the essence.

to cleanse the land of the wicked.

to expropriate and exterminate.

to go to war.

 

 

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10/15/24

Kenny Cole, in his Parabellum project for UMMA (see blog post), used several of my poems, two of which have never before been published. One of those poems is above. The theme is in the spirit of Cole's anti-war, anti-conformity message, heartily expressed through provocative art.

To see all the poems in Parabellum, go here:

http://kennycole.com/p-/the-poetry-of-parabellum

Fly Well In the Dark,

 

Owl