Category: Poetry Pot

Dripping in the Ectoplasm of White Privilege


I am normal.

I am kind,

Don’t see colour

Or ever find

The police treat me bad.

They are kind.

No special treatment

I once got fined

For driving drunk

They didn’t mind.

Sent me on my way

So I’m inclined

To love those cops

Who didn’t grind

My bones to paste

Or shoot me in my exposed back

Or kill me for talking back

Or cuff me for speaking out

Or night stuck me for a single shout

That war is for the battlefield

And not for those with badge and shield

Who hate the poor they guard all night

When really if they knew what’s right

They’d turn their eyes from the pitch

They’d join the horde and eat the rich.

A Visit to the Salt Pit.


I wake up every morning with a smile.

Not letting them sleep is okay with me.

Torture kept our country safe, for a while.

—

These are terrorists, mostly, they are vile

So we can treat them as we wish, you see?

I wake up every morning with a smile.

—

Stress positions were a reasonable style

Of persuasion, not unlike yoga, see?

Torture kept our country safe, for a while.

—

There was no need to offer them a trial

If they were innocent then they’d  be free.

I wake up every morning with a smile

—

Yes, rectal feeding was very worthwhile.

There was no real damage, if you ask me.

I wake up every morning with a smile.

Torture kept our country safe, for a while.

Hand Prints


Palm prints dusted on a dark cavern wall

Tiny stencilled hands forgotten for years.

Large shiny missiles and thuggish bombs fall

Leaders wipe away expedient tears

Until cameras turn their dead lidless eyes

To the next shiny seratonin hit.

Seizures shadowed by paperwork towers

As crowds stumble toward the glowing pit

Of welcoming screams that steams a greeting

To the exhausted the hopeless the doomed.

Nearby blank faced operatives meeting

For one last time before straightening ties

Join the lines of misery add their cries

Waiting.


A train speeds past
Whetting it’s wheels on the track.
Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
From us
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.