Angry Ideologue

 

I cannot pray for I do not believe.
Does praying make the weight of everything
you can’t change decrease?
How can we change all this pain?
When being humane has become a shame.

We mimic not the reality
but an image of a cynic.
Everything we turn a blind eye to,
we call a gimmick.

We’ve lost grip on what matters.
We don’t listen to our sisters.
We don’t listen to our daughters.
We listen to modern day preachers,
imams without turbans.
We’re digital age believers.

There’s them and you.
You are the bad guy
because you care about the children
saying goodbye
to their parents
at borders.
Because you care about soldiers
not following orders.
You disgust them
because you care about choice
and giving the voiceless a voice.
To them that destroys
the fabric of their precious hierarchy.
You are repulsive and scary.
You are the matriarchy.

They are right.
You are wrong.
You have guts.
You have love.
They are smart.
You are dumb.
You’re a slave
because you have what makes us
human in the first place.

They want to shut down the borders
and send home the workers
send back women to the kitchen
and vote for a president/bully
that will grab them by the pussy
because he’s a star
and they also want to be stars
so they listen to long seminars
about how to have a spine
how to think
how their right to put themselves
above all else is divine

You are a monster
because you dare
to not care
about unborn life.
You should be re-baptized.
Because they do.
They care about unborn children.
Until they are born
and need tuition.
Until they are sick
and need to be seen by a physician.
They don’t care when the children
are drowning
fleeing a raided country
by bombs that were made
from their tax money.
That’s when it’s okay to not care about life.
It’s simple
and logical.
Everything has a price.
You just don’t get it.
They do care about unborn life!
But not the women that carry it.

You women.
All you angry women.
So radical.
So irrational.
So bad at chess.
You’re a mess
because you don’t memorize moves.
You don’t approve of their truths.
So bad at opinions
because you don’t memorize
lines for defense in arguments.
You don’t realize
you are unintelligent because
you don’t tick the way they do.
You must not have confidence
because there must be a reason
why there was never
a prophetess.
Even though there was.
And there must be a reason
why there are no inventions
by you dolls so far.
Even though there are.

You don’t know anything.
You are dim
because you’re not desperate
for validation.
You throw around the word sexist
without consulting men.
You are a deviation
from biology.
You owe them an apology
because you oppress them
with your quest for equality.
You don’t try to prove your intelligence
that’s why you’re irrelevant.

And how dare you be a social justice warrior?!
There’s nothing dorkier.
It is an insult and a shame
to fight for justice.
You are puppet
because you don’t listen
to their masters.
They are a product of a wonderful system
that serves color changing truths
on silver platters.

In how many ways should I
explain
that you use your heart
and not your brain?
You are not sane.
It is profane to be humane.

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January 8th

 

I’m on Venus
The ground is opal
My breath is sleepless
The air is hopeful

I am Venus
You made this Roman
Gold and molten
You are Vulcan

I carry a rock
You call it Virtue
Inside it I stock
Vices you grew

You hold my myrtles
from the broken vase
Like all the cliches
I keep in my journal

You are strong wine
Secret and sacrificial
You are a shrine
You keep me bristled

Bona Dea is forsaken
in our surreptitious exhibitions
For this temptation
is everything but sacrilegious

January 7th

 

I sat in the metal dome headed east, and as the friction of the seats resembled the slide of the sheets, I closed my eyes.

The clouds around me looked familiar when Ishtar descended on me.

The soft strands of her hair wrapped around my wrists and pulled me to the gates of Eanna.

I noticed that she was made of light, and didn’t speak in words.

Her insides must be made of strings, I thought.

The gates opened and I was engulfed by music, light, and a feeling of reassuring comfort.

Her hair was still around my wrists, she pulled me in and spoke in violins.

There you were, wrapped up in silk and feathers, a cup of honey in hand, a conversation in the other.

Oh. I see what this rendezvous is about. It’s what everything is about. The gods know, the earthly pretend it’s myth.

I told Ishtar. We know, we know.

Everything started spinning, the ease turned into knots and the clouds started fading.

I opened my eyes and looked at the street.

I don’t need a theatrical holy speech in a dream to know. I know. It’s a sweet defeat.

The arrow killed the beast. I know.

The poem from the burning painting video

The world smells like ashes
from the sky comes the sound of cellos
from above watches
no one

All the women in my land are depressed
how could they not be
under the weight of their braids
the glass, the clay
and the salt

All the men in my land are depressed
they burn in the flames
their fathers started
the fume of their fire
haunts their moustaches

All the birds in my land are flightless
even the bravest eventually fall
in the hands of the emperor

The houses in here smell like despair
the bricks they were built with
are made of fear

The books around here
are unfinished
the poetry is one letter
and the holy books harbor sin

The clouds in my land have no shape
no weight and no color
they don’t cry but they suffer

The children around here ask no questions
the wonder in their eyes is an empty room
and a scared mother

All the trees in my land are cut early
we don’t like dissentient beauty
it makes us worry

The doors around here stay shut
they open sometimes for a hunt
but ultimately
we don’t like handles

The lights around here shiver
we try to make them steady
by standing in front of a mirror
in the dark

All the gods in my land hate us
everyday they show us
how they wish
they never made us

The dogs around here never bark
they know it’s pointless
so they also stand in front of a mirror
in the dark

The time around here doesn’t pass
it’s a pyramid of hands
holding the past

All the roads in my land are dead ends
we cross them
knowing where they lead

The lakes around here have no rivers
just like us
they question their identity

The schools around here teach silence
we bite our palms
we bite our words
we swallow their venom

All the flags in my land don’t flutter
they cover the dead
they cover the living
they smother

The glass of our skyscrapers reflects war
it reflects the blood
the sweat and the tears
and the horror of it all

All the art in my land
is stale
all the ideas are banal
it’s all predictable
our mad
our groundbreaking
our bizarre

Fire is what we need
fire is what we must meet
we must burn our tents
and our strings
and our spines

To earn rebirth
we must set ablaze
our universe

fever

 

i think of you
more than i talk to you
i think i think i think
i think of you so untrue

i think of you
late in the afternoon
your hands slick and busy
I think of your eyes
the heat of your gaze
making me feel dizzy

sometimes i worry
this will brand me
the need for this contingency
to gradually
unfold me

i think of you
early in the morning
your lips insistent and heavy
i think of your voice
the softness your tone
coaxing me

sometimes i worry
this would be empty
your image gets blurry
i want you
to fill me

i think of you late at night
before my vision gets hazy
i think of your arms
the warmth your embrace
blinding me

this is foreign
and kind of muddy
it feels like autumn
dipped in honey

it feels like
we’re walking on thin ice
and it starts cracking
every time i look
into your eyes

in-between

 

Everything I have written
looks like you eventually
even words before you
were for you
unintentionally

You make me think
of honey,
clover,
the lightest of greens
everything lucky,
warm, and fuzzy

Your touch is heavy
on the top of my soul
crushing and melting
the remnants of the mountain
of my self control

I keep your words
under my pillow
to chase off sleep
I keep your voice
as a scarecrow
to fight off
tomorrows

And you, I keep you
nowhere
everywhere
at the bottom
of the bottom
of the deep end
of my abyss

boomerang

 

I can’t drown in the same pond twice
never done it
won’t do it
not as long as I’m alive

I have taken this road before
we are exactly where we were
the same cloud
by the same ship
by the same shore

I have to stop
hearing the music
that plays in only my head
over and over
like a chronic throb

I have to quit
scratching that unappeasable
itch
before it burns
everything I built

Don’t say my name
ever again
avoid it
like you’d avoid taking
the lord’s name in vain

The doors must remain
closed
barricaded
to immortalize
that nothing will
ever be the same
again