Once there was more song than birds, and the birds did not mind because they had trees, and the trees did not mind because they had enough earth to sink their roots into and inhale the earth’s phosphorous core without some barren tractor ruining their fun. When the school bell rang, you tore open your snot-stained shirt and tumbled from gates to muddy shores and dug earthworms by the fistfuls. Hungry fishes waddle out of water, heavy with the past in their porcelain bottoms.
Now all we do is make dunghills out of disposables. They pile up all colorful and rusty and unbreakable. We made a mess and we made it ugly and we made it in the image of ourselves. But we are the generation who will make pillow talk out of missiles, make missiles into pillows, cheer the fireworks on while worrying about the dogs, nurture our houseplants and compete with them for water. When we recycle, we recycle the past into cash. And when the day comes, we will rideshare our way up,
The graffiti was placed by a group who wanted to cover up the fact that the walls of its city were crumbling down. Without making it overt that they were a legitimate group, responsible for the maintenance of the infrastructure. Soon enough, people who called themselves “artists”, believed it was a movement. And that’s how the walls of this city became patched up with words of righteous rebellion and feminist sentiments. Free of charge.
Cloud-seeding Is a government-led Tactical maneuver The artificial clouds fill the entire space The rain falls heavy Into the publics’ eyes They cannot look up They cannot see past the clouds For if they could The army of drones Hovering just above their heads May disturb them And a disturbed public Is more likely to foster Rebellious sentiments.
The deaf man can’t hear the sirens So, when he wakes up in the morning He takes his time getting dressed and having breakfast When he walks outside He is only a bit surprised that there is no one around It is a Saturday morning after all So people could be sleeping in He walks to the park The sirens wail People watch him from their windows Shocked at his defiance As the end moves through the streets Like a wave of forever-change The deaf man sits on his park bench, Watching the silent birds sing.
Is the world really ending, If you can’t hear the sirens?
One euro for a flame Otherwise it will be too dark For God to see you
Roll a joint Light a match Smoke it on the windowsill
Experience twice the candle light
They don’t know what will happen. Maybe the buildings will burn Maybe the page will rip Maybe the baby will cry Maybe the lights will just go out It doesn’t have to be so earth-shattering an ending. In fact, the less infrastructural damage, the better. Rather than the destruction of the world, The destruction of the mind Is much more manageable. But none of them are looking in.
I’ll meet you in the garden
Forgetting the vastness of the garden
I arrive at the garden I walk up the hill Down the other side Into the maze of the wood Through evening tea tables in flowery patches Past statues of men I don’t remember Endless figures hidden in shadows Just out of sight in the trees