Patriots are foreigners too. Like poets. Dead ones seem to outlive the living. Their words are the ideas that dreamers cling on to for a fictive future.
The living are dreamers at dawn. Walking on corn toes. Curved. Running the zig zag. They are pragmatic with crayons. And they laugh loud and unclear like the noise they speak.
Home is where the heart is heavy. If you cut through the chatter and chit it’s all bullsweat. Now if you knew where to bury the living, I’d hand you a shovel. No words. No songs. No honour to purchase.
They’ve got that one day exclusive on offer. Get your love at half the pain. All foreign currencies accepted. Faces are guilty but eyes are blameless.
“There’s nothing worse than wasted suffering.” – Benedict J. Groeschel
Beware the perverse pleasure of watching people eat the things your belly desires. The eyes that spy never tire. The hunger is rarely quenched. The hate must feed on sugar and the love must be doused in salt and pepper. Fickle flavours of spices and herbs of dissonance will be added to the food you digest and hate is fat and strong as it was last fear. It must continue to feed. Blood will be drunk as eagerly as it is shed. Consider the thirst in their eyes. Your eyes. Flaming red brown. Or cool water blue. Both inescapably black lashed and shocked like white lightening, gleefully, jubilant, resoundingly swell, when you chew your hate and swallow your love, runny or hard boiled, blatant, merciless, it will happen to you, him, her, us, its ours. Its not. You don’t own it, and yet its seductive fragrance overwhelms you, forcefully undresses you, to be pimped out for the blow out, like sodomized babies holed up in Gomorrah. How you gonna tread the thin line when your waist is expanding? Fence sitter, something wicked this way comes. Its happening all over again. You will happen again.
We are all things, man and woman, bread and water, extravagantly gifted for the work of devious minds like Star gazing super villains with pack lunches inside our cape, disguised in the charade of misery with uncertain career prospects and the promise of a bonus who goes by the name of Luck. A guilty nose smells discontent. Grown and groan. Refreshed. Youtubed. Facebooked. Frontrowed. Cornrowed. Plantations. Migrations. Suicidal plane wreck. Suburban death wish. Murders you like Cain. But you kill with thoughts, words, secrets, lies and that gift-wrapped betrayal they call indifference. Your dexterous trigger fingers dipped in the stew pot, stirs up the gossiping chain gang to a jig of heart break dancing. Bodies tumble, stomach rumbles for a taste, if not indigestion and a receding fad Diet Coke hope. And great ideas fall asleep on a full stomach of emptiness. Have you died again today? Been reborn again today? Will you live to hate again today? Will you watch as they watch you eat their love again today? Please don’t kill us with your silence because our screams have yet to manifest outside concrete slab dreams. We are prisoners that feel the texture of our nightmares. Please don’t kill us with your present in exchange for our future, for all you hate and love is today, and all we are and dare is today. Sleep on it, and maybe tempt priceless death to sleep on us, a little while older. till we learn to make bread without malice, and exorcise spirits that trouble the water.