Saturday, May 13, 2017
The cracks and groans of the house in the wind
like an old ship tied up dry.
The shrivelled dreams and shreds of flag
flap their last goodbye.
To foreign lands in a paper boat,
I’ll seek compassion there.
In shackled chains and shanty camps
I’ll find a home, beware.
Our blood it runs from Yankee guns,
seemingly mysteriously delivered.
NATO there with a cold hard stare,
contemptuously conniving in the killing.
In secret cells near worn out bells
we’ll plot and plan for homecoming.
Though such a thing is a journey far,
in a world turned mad and loathing.
it is somewhat interesting to note that I hawked this poem around all over the place and failed to get publication... (of course perhaps it is rubbish, the poem)
...at the same time we have a problem... people cowed down / hiding in their kitchens so politically correct and not able to say fuck off to fuck.. I consider the loss of this functionality to be a problem... :-)