Poetry

Four handsome men   
sing lullabys:   
security   
oppurtunity   
pride   
defense.   
Four monsters   
bleed through the pores   
of a dapper´s mask:   
repression   
nationalism   
patriotism   
militarism.   
    
I have no pulpit   
no personal driver   
no mahogany table   
to rest my gut on.   
No money, no success   
no consciousness.   
No power, no control   
no more clothes;   
stolen from me at gunpoint.   
The pleasure spots on my flesh   
numbered and registered   
for quicker manipulation,   
others consume champagne   
while I drink table wine   
and pretend.   
    
Panic drips from windows, the scent   
of black and white talking pictures,   
torture victims and their genitals   
scrubbed with black colored pencil   
hidden behind a bubbling white veil.   
I am not alone in the streets   
with my gas mask and dry heaves   
as long as the mob runs   
in the same direction.     
But as long as the chassis   
are heard in the distance   
we are all on our own.