After playing with words and twisting thought,
My pen drops on sand as fist clenches.
My back bends to vomit, my throat taut.
Oh God, I think the rage in me dances.
I use a ballpoint to reopen wounds; to rage, release.
To my right, a bottle cries for lips.
But I let blood flow a little more; to some, disease.
To my left, an ocean dies, no ships.
Scabs, scabs, scabs.
Scabs on sand and water.
Never to heal - always to the slaughter.
Philippine Panorama, April, 1993
2 comments:
Hey George-- I accidentally signed on with Jed's account and commented,and then deleted it, but my comment is this
"Scabs on sand and water" is an excellent line and I like the dead ocean very much too. Nice job.
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