When the demolishers go scot-free And a demolition is celebrated When the inflictors are adored And the victims are hated Where violence is celebrated In the name of the majority And resistance is suppressed In the name of minority Where marginal lives are crushed And upper lives uplifted Where highs only rise further high Where lows only dip further low[Read More...]
It is a miracle, isn’t it? In a cluttered space with books, with the marijuana of remembrances, with misplaced rage, the exiled poet keeps birthing poems. Worn-torn memories reopen their scarred flesh. They bleed raw with coagulated chunks of rape, maiming, bombing in a motherland fresh with familiar faces, and recycled anguish. The heart races back in time, all those[Read More...]
I watch with my lips sealed Watch each girl burn burn the stains of Predators’ Hands till their life is done I watch with my ears closed Watch rancid hands leap and lustfully Immolate last night’s Fun Clear the mess. The job is done. Unemployed, porn-ridden mobiles watch, watch with closed eyes the horror, horror of a life[Read More...]
The post Slash & Burn appeared first on Countercurrents.
For decades, Andre Vltchek, an old-school journalist and artist (but a young man) who travelled the world in search of truth and who always stood up straight, tried to revolve the world and encourage people to revolt against injustice.
[ I received the news late last night from Counterpunch- one of my favorite columnists- activist, visionary, poet, philosopher, friend of the downtrodden, Andre Vltchek, had slumped into the seat of a taxicab, his wife next to him, while traveling somewhere in Turkey, and never woke up. I truly did not want to believe it- in a worldwide desert terrain[Read More...]
There is a tomato field that is sorrowful to the universe unable to lament though it doesn’t yet know that the farmer is dead. The dust on the field grew wings in the wind and looking for its owner settled down across the river and the mountain valley. The ripe tomatoes that incite the outer reaches of the[Read More...]
The post The tomato field appeared first on Countercurrents.
1. Crackling Aging is like a multitude of doors, closing in back alleys—sunless… (or lit by a lamppost in a film noir script). You think you see a beautiful face—gas-lit, in a secret chamber— hair with a halo around it. You think you know the name of that face…. But… you have forgotten all names. And the face smiles back[Read More...]
The post “Older!” … “Not: Old!” appeared first on Countercurrents.
Ask me How I’m doing What I’m thinking about But Ask me What the future holds Where I’ll be But Ask me About the pain About the sadness But Ask me Why I’m hurting Why I can’t move But Ask me About my parents About my kids But It isn’t like The Weather The Game The Show So You Don’t[Read More...]
The post You Can Ask Me….But appeared first on Countercurrents.
Rome burnt as Nero* played the fiddle. Fiery flames walk highways, creep into homes, stalking, burning, killing not only coronal heat but hearths. Inflamed by the surreptitious smoke seeping under the smouldering trees, breeze rips incensing fierce fires that unquenched swallow clean air and belch apocalyptic hellish skies. Did Nero build palaces by burning Rome? I[Read More...]
The bombings have begun. Sharp splinters of smooth, shiny bombs Penetrate into the rugged dreams of Palestinian emancipation Blinding, bruising, and burying it under the soot of crushing colonialism. Amid the bombardment, shaky screams of subjugated children Rend the sky into flakes of agony, Each flake swirling in a vortex of indescribable pain, Clenching in its fist the veined heart[Read More...]
