coming down the line.
and the bodies of children,
and lovers lay smoldering,
atop the bodies of soldiers,
of mothers, and of poets.
if you’ve got a voice,
better use it.
you know we’re running
out of time.
if you’ve got a love,
better lay it down….
it’s the time of the cross,
and the circus is in town.
better shout it from the rooftops,
dont matter if you have a name.
this battle’s not for cowards,
and love is not a game!
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Dark and hungry,
swallowing lava burnt air,lips blistered with prayer.ducks quacking in flight,Nickels and dimes in the ashtray…a song on the radio,cant remember the name.hands shake just a little,unbuttoning your shirt.a small trail of sweatbetween your breasts disappears.You breathing in gasps,or not breathing at all….slide my hand to your longing,tilt your head, close your eyes…Grey clouds on the…
those same children
that swallowed Atlantis….those same children,starving ‘neath Africa’s sun….dead from the bombingsin Iraq, Afghanistan, and soon Iran….their bodies thrown into dumpstershere in the United States….dead on the borders,dead in the oil filled waters,dead on the cocaine streets,dead in the prisons…dead in the colleges,dead in the unemployment lines….dead on the picket lines,dead, handcuffed, and beaten….dying, and dead,…
you tell me…
on a belief in God.looking at it fromthe Native Americans’ side…it would bebelief in your Godat the expenseof their God…and so it has beenthroughout history!i really dont believeGod kills off his competition,nor do i thinkmorality and freedomwere ever won with a sword.a compassionate Godnever goes off to war,never invades,never conquers by force.God is not a…
the bastards lied!
and the bombs exploding,dont sound like liberation.while the flesh torn facesrunning in fear,haunt my sleepless nights.victory doesnt rhyme with oil,freedom doesnt stink like dead bodies…my brothers that fell beside me,are not heroes, they’re just dead!as democracy nails down coffin lids,while the traders wear new suits.and the real terror is exposedin the money on the table!sure…
the guillotine stands
the pinnacle of pulse….that drains the heartbeats….traffic heavy, horns honking,hurrying, hurrying….trucks and buses puffing cloudsof death into the air….neon signs keeping score.billboards selling the dream,street preachers selling Jesus….corner whores selling themselves….in sterile rooms atop the skyscrapers,far from the stink, far fromtrash strewn in the alleywayslike tiny lives forgotten,gum stuck to the shoes…..they gamble with futures,trading…
drink me then,
i’ve spun my web out of moonlight,and now the trees come to bury the dead.there are small stones that hold infinity,whose very smoothness holds myriad maps.while raindrops speak of salvation and seduction,and the boxes are wrapped and eternally silent…the lies we planted on fevered nights,still hold moments of magic and touch.and now the fire itself…