[Syndicate] death in Yugoslavia...

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death in Yugoslavia
(killing by numbers)

        
as the wind stretches
it yawns
across broken lands
brushing over lost bodies
disparate and battered
blown
scattered into a 
state of timeless disposability

who knows how much human body-waste
the wind has witnessed
as histories soul bleachers
educators of the singular
create yet another bombast, carnage path
for others to unwillingly adhere to

this wind
part of the nature scene
has seen
too many things
if only it could blow away all the pains
cleanse this shabby place of places

it blows through 
above and over 
not able, unable to change
what is blown apart
a crumpled psyche
in a world dissected by mythology
dreams and ideals
tired inventions and pretensions of what could be
and some have been too willing to be
what they cannot be

Yugoslavia
is 
a dying bird

us
the other birds
watch...

flapping around hovering
in the wind
waiting to see 
which way 
the wind will blow
all birds 
are mortal
waiting for the drop

short of breath
short of sky

the creature 
could do nothing 
but cry
as days passed

the beak would peck at the glass
trying to peck through the window
wanting to escape 
the trap
it yearned for flight once more

others
outside
flew by
looking in

unable to break 
the spell of 
what was cast
it's wing flapped hitting out
in frustration, crazed

morals come and go
yet we will never know
why we waste our time
creating each one of them

shadows collude
and move 
around this place
as night cloaks 
the scenery
in here

as the feathered martyr rests
slightly jittering
holding onto
the last embrace

time grinds on
leaving the dead behind
to become 
mere memories
as life rushes ever onwards around it

the bombing 
has paused.......

here lies a dying woman
not just a woman
but a woman 
who knows 
the wrath of 
insecure 
masculinity

she thinks......
are we all merely
headless lost creatures?

here I lie
one leg less 
and many dreams less

if only the tears 
that that I churn
could fill 
the gap 
blown asunder

are we tomorrow's ghosts
laying down snares
for future lives?

dead is gone
lost is not found
end is - fin

and the wind
it still blows
it still moans
stretching 
it's invisible limbs across the
battered lands

oh surely 
there's  hope
once we've realized
the loss of hope

but still the bird 
is trapped
caught between 
non reason and hope
dangling on the gropesome
x mark's 
the spot
mapped out 
worn out
and the wind?
It still  blows.....




marc garrett  - street poem 98.
pasted up on steeet walls in frustration of witnessing
males creating more carnage for the human race.

                                                 



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