Watch us here,
Mark us, our Empire, our World,
Be careful not to choke on your eyeful:
Our Irradiated, gold fields with their hands
Stuck like beetles in tree sap.
Unspeaking their woes with tanned lips,
Choking behind masks and wasps.
This is not what they wanted, but
This is what they are given.
Our skylines with firefly eyes
behind which, every night, is a beating.
We were fools and couldn’t stand that
these towers stood equal with a woman
and her torch, so we built them higher
and with fists that have no need to protect
a flame or body.
Our Railways that straddle our waste
from belt to sunken, feasting chains.
What promise, what commerce, came from
this iron stampede? The massacre of
red, of green, of yellow: the mixing pot
is our blood bag, struggling to pump
the keep pure hope alive.
Gomorrahns: gun-soaked Gomorrahns,
sign-waving Gomorrahns,
white-housed Gomorrahns,
murder-aquitting Gomorragns all.
Our hands are so small because they
never practiced holding another heart.
I would rather be a cockroach, K,
than a patriot with their property.
Be a smear before being a flag;
be hurt by apples,
before throwing down seeds.
What are we that worship a man with a
kettle-hat equal to he who slew a mountain?
A bum to he who wielded Freedom
like Moses threw down Laws?
What are we that we do not pacify
the birthing cry of gunpowder smoke
that howled with war once, then again?
But relish the thought of eternal birth,
to kill another in the name of one liberty
again and again?
Gomorrahns, we live on fatburgs
we live on the backs of cleaners.
Humanity is cleaner than ourselves in
Its will to fix a nation of clogs.
They have no need for voices anymore,
they have learned to breathe without air,
only swords are worth their lungs.
Hypocrites? No, for they will cut us down
for virtue where we cut for fat.
They will cleanse the vermin that
would cleanse the wheat.
They see the poverty in our cornucopia,
They know what needs be done.
So stand aside your liberties,
around your waiting coals.
Wait upon your land, bought by
ancestors from strangers.
Stolen by strangers from strangers
before them: the first blood of all Nations.
They are the swift God’s hand you have been waiting for:
it is dark, it is unfair, it is beautiful, it is just,
it is vengeful, it is unmanly, it is sick, it is real,
it is scarred, it is afraid, it is what it is and
it is not you.
Be grateful it is not you, your blessing
is to be the first blood of a new Nation.
Better than before.
Welcome the difference.
Gomorrah, it is time you become
America.
Pen and Screen 