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A collaboration over too much coffee.
coffee and pen

14 October, 2004

Walls

Cradled on his knees
I heard my father rattle off
Partition's horror stories -
my dreamscapes' sky turned red.
And I shuddered.

As an adolescent
I came face to face
with corrosive venom
spewed by frothing missionaries
of false pride.
And I cringed.

I read about genocide in Africa,
a victorious general
forces the rebel loser
to eat his own recently carved-out kidney.
And humanity crumbled.

Driving from Bergotel Bestei to Dresden,
I pass a signpost on the road
"To Auschwitz."
Half a million corpses rose.
I swallowed my tongue.

Nearer home,
they smashed an infant's head on the kerb,
shoved an iron rod two feet deep between a schoolgirl's legs,
carved open a lady lecturer's stomach and stuffed burning rags inside.
I shrunk.

Now, in my green heaven,
where crickets and frogs
fritter away their songs,
I hear the distant rumble
of the invisible walls
closing in.

(c) Max Babi
----------------------------------------------------------

Gracias Muchos, Peter Griffin
-your sense of aesthetics is truly
that of a blueblooded connoisseur...

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1 Comments:

Blogger zigzackly said...

Max,
It's all your own work. The only credit i'd like to claim is seeing that it had some potential. And to be honest, this was also my excuse to make a point in that continued debate about whether editing could improve poetry or not. i trust i managed to convince you just a little bit?

24 October, 2004 00:19  

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