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

 

all the blurbs and fairytales, peddled,

that politicians proclaimed,

lapped up by a pandemic 

of unthinking thought.

 

it never

 

even entered the outer 

perimeter of the real,

or lay witness to the manufactory

in the pits between the skyscrapers. 

 

if there was a real god,

one who didn’t on the leash of souls fascinate,

she was chastised, marginal,

 

a handmaiden of the crippled and naive,

tolerated yet flimsy,

saddled with an impossible task:

 

to nurture trust

between those of different skin,

and debunk a sacrilege

of White wonder bread.

 

the politicians,

they had knives for mean tongues,

and cut diamonds with precision

from the religious fat.

 

they slashed to slay

the quests of the ethical,

drawing out blood

to swill the scarlet of hate.

 

below their pulpit on the hill,

the coinage and oink-honks

of a low city responded,

ravenous for violence.

 

it was obvious

though unmentionable in this obvious context

that violence

was the real eucharist.

 

 

-----------------------------------------------

 

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