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  Copyright 2002-08   DoggerelPundit
  All Rights Reserved

   Wednesday, December 18, 2002


To Penn,

I read your communiqué today.
The one from their government, in your name.

You are foolish, man.
In bazaar land killing and the gassing
Massing in the graves. The choking stink.
Closed doors shuttered night murders street dead;
Secret furtive living.
Trust no one speak not.
Who knows you no one
Who knows?
The quick knife an eye gone
Or disappearance whole.
Nation of furtive living dead.
Stroll you in then and MATTER?
Somehow your oyster?
Not used? Never used?
You are foolish, man.

They have no knives when they did
With food uneaten piled high as palaces?
Would you alone wave out cheered nations limp be they
And not wonder? Not wince? Believe?
Irrelevant those nations but not by you.
Who are you? (who’s got You? she said)
The gassed there do not.
In that last minute, could they see you.
Could hear you now.
They choke out at you the wretches. Disbelief. Betrayal; an enormity
At the close of existence.
If at your screen--not retching? Not stumbling out?
Images you bring and courting
You walk over all their tongues.
You are foolish, man.

Beyond foolish you have no honor, man.
Think now of Flanders.
White stumps
And of later beaches later red
Flowing out from Flanders.
Different men then not your kind
Could you find breath there in their air?
Go there. Your saying. See your slaying.
They knew then when down was really up
And would not suffer you.
Yet, they made you.
And you walk over all their tongues.
Without honor, man.

More than foolish beyond no honor you are soiled, man.
Unclean goods.
Invoking Founders lines from such a stage as that!
Help for declamation to our heads
And to our dead.
Would even Allah make words ashes in your dying mouth.
You sit to make with living chips a bet
Whose cashout you will decline to follow.
Pay your coming debt.
Pretend you for bread and you have surfeit
To spend a coin here false to spend save among the foolish.
False the spending is and cheating.
Cheating Flanders children.
Blind you sit.
Shrinking back and far below big mirror’s illusory front
Fearing betrayal by illusion.
Spending coin from Flanders children
For mirror.
For larger steps on local paths.
Steps taken over tongues.
You are dirty, man.

   posted by Stephen at 10:31 AM | Plink

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