Wednesday, July 20, 2011
I mean ...
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Squeezing between your fingers,
In that familiar 'pleasuring yourself' grip;
Prepared as judge and jury to yank
From its life support;
the faded ... not quite so flawless.
A small sacrifice for the supreme specimen!
YOU know what is best with an obscene certainty;
Your unflinching fingers,
That sabotage time, tell me that.
How can you be so sure that you choke wisely?
Those hands that feed your greed ...
Your need to stroke and invade another's temple.
Fingers that once enticed heaven,
To soar from handmade strings.
How can you know better than She,
What is beautiful ...
What is real ...
What is worthy.
Isn't Autumn as joyous as Spring?
Should Winter be betrayed for Summer?
Seasons, pitted against each other;
The Mother screams, as manipulated pen or sword
Slice her wrists; dig out her heart.
Are there no deliberations ... second thoughts,
As your child eats and a black son dies...