Prada, our new shiny armor,
        we walk down postmodern streets where
        poison rules, from origins we don't know
                (and can't point out on a map)
        run through with the hiss of a serpent those “lowlifes“
                chose for us, thinking one day they
                        too, could get shiny armor for
                                themselves.


and we don't know
who to say yes for and
who to say no – except those guys that
totally salivate on ya, like when you're all dancin' and
popped the ex and he comes all rubbin onto you, ew
        how cheap, what a creep and
                terrible in bed


blind and deaf and numb and
        the child and the judge.
                the sea and the land and
                        the living dead.

the red X on our front doors and our deceased and
easy we can forget,
        easy we can mend and
                easy we can destroy -

if there are two warm hands on our shoulders, soft whispers in
our ears and courage planted on a mislead heart.


Prada is our new shiny armor, and
too easy we forgot – all those
saplings ripped from our lands,
   all the young flesh offered to
   those we chose, with thick holy books of laws and money stuck between pages
                butchers pretending gods who stood
                        by and watched many die
                        and lit a cigar for the triumph, holy
service for them.



                                                                                        what did they die for?






our sundays and mays are bloody.
we clenched on the arteries of so many
        young gods, we stabbed through any
        contradicting thought, our
                sundays will always remain corrupt and
                may will be a month to lament, for the long dead and
                the recent gassed -


                                                                and we will forget on the monday, of june.



...


he was born on
that barren lands of where now we can't point
on a map, the capital city of a country
        that needn't be told – for this story
                is the story of one god,
                        who shares the destiny of so many others dead, flowing in
                                the shared lament of our world.

last days of february, he first saw the sunlight -
together with the awakening of spring.
        he could be the spring of our lives
                the first apple blossom
                        followed by many but
                        a freezing cold preyed upon him.