Saturday 15 February 2020

This man


This man that’s doomed to life in a cell
was just 13
when he killed.
Is that fair?

I don’t know,

but there’ve been men
who killed in bulk
whom History lauds.

There are those who are killed by the State
for killing others,
and those who are killed by the State
for being Jews,

but there’s no justice.

You, too, perpetrate.
You break others
in ways unique to you,
and, sure, they break you too,

but there’s no justice.

We are brutes.
We slay the flies
that torture lions
that torture prey,

for nature, too, is barbarous,

and nature is us,
and we are nature,

and the Word is with God,
and the Word is God,

but there’s no justice

anywhere.





Shame


Can you write the poem for me?
I just can’t do it now.
I’ve exhausted all the pride I had.
I’ve shot that holy cow.

Can you write the poem for me?
Can you tell me what it means?
Your love was where the poem was,
in sacrificial need.

Sometimes I would trace the lines
but never did it well.
Now that I can see what’s what,
my pencil’s gone to hell.

Can you write the poem for me?
Can you show me one exists?
All I’ve left are empty sheets
and useless, rotting wrists.

Can you write the poem for me?
Can you tell about my shame?
There never was a poem, hey,
beyond what we can name.

There never was a poem.
There never was a me
beyond the shame that cuts and slashes
now that I am free.