Mother of all blogs!

Sweet Sixteen

2011-08-09T01:15:00.000-07:00

This is a poem inspired by the recent massacre in Norway where I live. The Fremskrittparti I refer to in the closing verse is the political party that spreads race hate in this country, Siv Jensen is the leader.

Dave

Sweet Sixteen

The bullet sped through the air,
Already the sheer velocity and air resistance began to deform its shape
As it sped mercilessly on towards its victim,
In agonizing slow motion.
The fraction of a second that life is suspended
In a predetermined anticipation of its own termination.

The bullet struck the tender, oh so pretty, delicate white skin,
ripping it to shreds,
Tore through flesh and exploded with merciless design.
Tearing organs, shattering bone and giving such excruciating, shearing pain.
Fear, emptiness and oh, so all alone,
The victim felt her life ebbing slowly from her body.
Her warm blood soaking into the cold, wet earth of Utøya.

BASTARD BREIVIK!
BASTARD SIV JENSEN!!
BASTARD FREMSKRITTSPARTI!!
BASTARDS ALL THE MONGERS OF HATE AND DIVISION!!!!

An explanation of sorts:

Firstly I would like to say that the poem is directed personally to Anders Behring Breivik, the mass murderer. Although it seems to be written with one particular female victim in mind, it is meant to represent all 69 victims both male and female (it is still so difficult to comprehend the magnitude of the massacre, I cried while writing these lines). I would like him to ponder on every single bullet he fired and follow it’s heartless trajectory into the body of each beautiful living person and feel the pain of every impact, the fear and the lonely anticipation of approaching death.

As for forgetting, no, it is up to us to ensure that all those lives were not lost in vain. Europe and the US have been moving rapidly along a political path that legitimizes racist attitudes as acceptable. Extreme right wing populist parties, who base their ideology on racial discrimination and anti-immigration are growing at an alarming rate (in Norway gaining between 20 and 30% of voter intentions). These parties legitimize the attitudes of people like Breivik and those so called “responsible” politicians must accept their responsibility in this heinous act.

The sacrifice of these young kids has to function as an eye opener to the rest of the population. Societies cannot develop on hate and division, we need to lay the foundations for a better world so that our children can take over and build upon it. We must never repeat the failures of the 20th century!

The Day My Heart Stopped Beating

2011-02-19T02:07:00.000-08:00

The day my heart stopped beating

This week I lost a day of my life.

Gone, a whole day, not there, nonexistent.

No tunnel of light, no angels, no floating above looking down.

Just gone, not there.

Almost echoing Epicurus;

"So death, the most dreaded of evils, is nothing to us,

because when we exist, death is not present,

and when death is present, we do not exist."

But I returned, resurected....hardly!

Just came back, minus one day.

Patched together information,

Enough to partially fill the gap:

Two ambulances and a helicopter,

The heroic efforts of a car body repair workshop employee

to hold life in me.

The cardioshock treatment and the hospital emergency team.

Life hangs by a slender thread,

Luck, chance, situation; though hardly fate,

Decides the outcome.

I lost one day, it could have been all days.

Now I must cherish those remaining.

I’ve learned at least what not being there entails:

It entails not being there.

I’m here now, lets go on.......

19 February 2011

Luis builds a shrine to Marylyn Monroe

2011-01-06T09:11:00.000-08:00

A short but true story from prehistoric times (Rotterdam 1976):

Luis builds a shrine to Marylyn Monroe

(or: “Every man walks his own way” Suriname Jensen)

In the beginning:

A crazy chase at the Spanish Pension.

Up and down the emergency stairway,

in and out of kitchens and rooms.

Jensen with a pistol, Luis with the look of death and pervasive feminine anguish.

A pink blur transmutated from the staircase, through my opened door and materialised on the edge of my bed, visibly shaking with fear.

“Save my life!” He screeched in his tinny effeminate Germanic English, “he's going to kill me!”

“I'll kill that pervert! That fucking Austrian homo!” roared Jensen, as he appeared pistol in hand at the top of the stairs.

“Is he in there?” he yelled, as his transfixed stare tried to penetrate me and take in the contents of my room.

A broom stood at the entrance, an impulse made me pick it up and place it diagonally across the door to bar the way.

Broom against gun, the foolishness of the gesture only began to sink in as he approached and stood directly in front of me, face contorted with anger, emotions in full flow and incapable of control.

Was I really risking my life for this whimsy, effeminate Austrian poof who revelled in stealing my pink pillowcases?

I couldn't believe it...........

I began to talk rapidly about Jensen’s favourite subject, philosophy. At least that is how he himself would describe it. He would write down what he considered great philosophical observations on bits of paper and pin them to the kitchen wall. His latest, and the one he considered probably the deepest observation of his life, read; "Every man walks his own way."

"Jensen", I said, tightening my grip on the broomstick and pressing it against his chest. "Remember, every man walks his own way. Even Luis. You must accept that other people have other ways of living their life."

This, I discovered, was the worst thing I could have said. As it so happened his piece of paper with these illuminating words, hanging on the wall over the kitchen table, had been given a slight, though as it would now seem, fatal addition. Someone had added a sentence. The philosophical text now read; "Every man walks his own way. Especially Luis!" alluding to the feminine way Luis wiggled his buttocks to ensure that nobody mistook his sexual preferences.

Jensen, it transpired, thought that Luis had defaced his words of wisdom.

It had in fact been me!

Jensen lunged forward, "Let me pass, I’ll teach him to take the piss out of me, I'll kill the bastard pervert!"

Luckily for both Luis, and me, the delaying tactic had worked. A siren sounded in the street outside, the screeching of brakes and thud of heavy boots on the stairs, announced the arrival of the police.

In the middle:

Not long after Luis joined a Christian sect. They had convinced him that they would (with the help of the Lord) cure him of his homosexuality. He insisted that I be with him to experience his newfound way of life and benefit from the Lords wisdom. I refused as insistently as his persistent pleading (my close familial experience with Jehovas Witnesses had thought me to steer clear of Christian sects).

But in the end, as it seemed the only way to be quit his persistent bickering, I consented to visit his sect.

*****

The sect leader greeted me, smiled a sickly born again smile, and staring intensely into my eyes began;

"My friend, you have such deep and understanding eyes. Surely you have met with the Lord at some stage in your life…….. I feel an intelligent and searching mind is with us today…….. I sense a little doubt also, am I right? Don't be afraid, open up. Share your doubts with us.........”

This is where the formula normally paid off. The victim, unsure, insecure, a little uncomfortable at being the object of everyone’s attention, and of course not a little flattered by the implications of the speakers apparently sincere observations, would soften. Standing defenceless, open to suggestion and sliding unperceivably into that glaze eyed, uncritical condition of true believer. Converted, confounded, confabulated or just plain conned!

"Bollocks!!" came the reply. The delicate bubble of anticipation burst, confusion entered the minds of the gathered throng.

I rose up, kicked my chair as hard as I could to the floor, and with the maximum aire of contempt that I could muster, stormed out of the room. Luis ran after me, hanging on to my shirtsleeve in a futile effort to hinder my departure. Pleading that I didn't understand, that they were sincere and that I must give them another chance. "Bollocks!" I repeated as I reached the door and walked rapidly into the street.

In the end:

There was a knock on the door. I opened it and Luis, looking emaciated and thoroughly unwell, entered the room. “Can you lend me some money,” he asked in his squeaky voice.

"Why? What’s up? You look really bad."

The story unfolded.......................

Luis had been given the job of cleaning the meeting rooms for the Christian sect. He had given up homosexuality, and would henceforth dedicate his life to following the Lord and converting as many lost souls as possible to joining him on the righteous path. (Though he had reluctantly given up on me after the sect leaders had instructed him that I was a lost cause).

But in the divine sphere of faith and redemption, the murky, soiled vices of earthly temptation are only thinly kept at bay. One evening, as Luis washed the dishes, the leader of the sect, who had stayed behind after the faithful had departed, approached him from behind. The devils hand was at work!

Tempted no doubt by the sensuous movement of Luis’s firm little buttocks as he scrubbed the cups and plates, the elder took a firm grip on his trousers and pulled them, underpants and all, with a jerking forceful movement, down to his knees. Unzipping his own trousers, he pressed the petrified Luis over the kitchen sink, and proceeded to press his penis between Luis’s tightening buttocks.

Luis went berserk, he chased the elder from the premises, and smashing everything his slight physique was capable of, left the place a half hour later looking like ground zero.

For Luis there was absolutely nothing left to live for! The next day he withdrew all his money from the bank, and after purchasing two pink candles and candlesticks, a bunch of red roses, a vase and some very strong sleeping tablets, donated the remainder to a non-Christian charity for orphaned children in the Third World.

Luis returned to the Spanish Pension, gathered together all his earthly belongings, minus a gold framed photograph of Marylyn Monroe, and gave them all to the local Seamen’s Mission. He then made his way to the University Hospital in Rotterdam, sneaked into the toilets and locked himself in a cubicle. He took down the toilet seat, sat himself down and proceeded to take out the contents of his carrier bag.

He laid a small rectangular silk cloth (pink) on the tiled floor, placed the two pink candles in their candlesticks at the two outermost corners of the cloth nearest him. Next he took out the vase, unlocked the cubicle door and listened intensely. When he was sure no one was in the vicinity, he sneaked noiselessly out, filled the vase at the sink and returned, locking the door rapidly behind him. He removed the paper from the roses, crumpled it up, lifted the seat and dropped it into the toilet bowl. He placed the flowers in the vase a little to the left of centre of the cloth. After arranging them tenderly he took the gold-framed photograph of Marylyn Monroe and placed it in the centre on the back edge of the cloth.

The shrine was complete, the ceremony could begin.

Luis pinned a note to his shirt donating his organs to medical science. He took a comb from his pocket and groomed his hair for the last time. He plucked up Marylyn’s photograph, kissed her tenderly on her ruby red lips, replaced her on the cloth, hesitated, then rearranged the roses in the vase. His eyes were wet with tears, soon, maybe, he would be together with her in a new world free from vice and betrayal. He unscrewed the top of the flask of sleeping pills and swallowed the lot in one gulp.

*****

A day and a half later Luis awoke and thought he was in Heaven. All around him was an effervescent brightness. Shining whiteness.

But as his eyes began to focus he recognised the white tiled walls of the hospital toilet. His head was heavy and dizzy and he felt a gnawing emptiness in this stomach. Hunger! He hadn’t eaten for nearly two days, and he’d given away all his money! This wasn’t Heaven, it was Hell!

He left the toilets and walked unsteadily along the corridor where he came across a nurse pushing a trolley. He couldn’t believe his eyes, the trolley was full of food, dinners for the patients. He continued to follow the nurse at a safe distance, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (not an easy task for Luis the gay exhibitionist). The nurse took two plates and disappeared into a ward. Without thinking twice Luis lunged forward, took two plates himself and ran in panicked ecstasy back to his toilet refuge. There, witnessed only by a pouting Marylyn Monroe, he devoured the two meals so fast he almost didn’t taste their contents, fearful that the nurse would discover his criminal deed, find him and return the meals to their rightful owners.

And now here he was, on my doorstep, asking to borrow some money.

An Afterword:

Jensen was never released again, presumably deported back to Surinam. Nobody knew and nobody seemed to care.

Luis, after paying me back the money he borrowed, travelled back to Austria to try and pick up the pieces of his shattered life. People often asked after him, but nobody had any answers. Maybe he came out too soon, on the threshold of the “GayRevolution”, we can only hope that he survived long enough to enjoy the acceptance of his sexual predilection as a positive, not perverse way of living.

As for the Christian sect? Well, as long as there is pain in this world there will always be those who exploit it. May they rot in Hell!

15 de Marzo 2009- The battle of the dead!

2009-03-24T14:16:00.000-07:00

15 de Marzo 2009- The battle of the dead!

It was the night of the living dead,
From all around the zombie like hordes,
Converged upon the voting centres,
ARENA, vampyric, needed its’ infusion of blood!

Across the frontiers streamed,
The psuedosalvadorans,
The paid vassals of the ruling elite,
ARENA needed its’ infusion of foreign aid!

From the halls of Congress in Washington,
The comfortable cowards of reaction,
Threatened the poor and opressed salvadorans,
ARENA needed its’ infusion of Uncle Sam!

In the voting booths of El Salvador,
The hardly audible click of cellular phones,
Anounced the arrival of 21st century slaves,
ARENA needed its’ infusion of fear!

But the living and heroic dead persevered,
The ghosts of Anastasio Aquino, Farabundo Martí,
Feliciano Ama, Roque Dalton, Monseñor Romero,
The six jesuits priests, their houskeeper and daughter,

The 75 000 killed, the tortured and disapeared,
The ghosts of El Mozote, Rio Sumpul and Rio Lempa,
Gave strength to the Salvadoran people,
ARENA got its’ infusion of defeat!

50 years of military dictatorship,
12 years of cruel and bloody civil war,
And 20 years of savage neoliberal pillage,
EL CAMBIO HA VENIDO!!

This poem was inspired by the recent elections in El Salvador where I was an electoral observer (March 15).

It probably needs some explaining for those not acquainted with the so called “democratisation” process that has taken place since the Peace accords in 1992 ended a 12 year long civil war which killed 75 000 people (most of them killed by government forces and their associated death squadrons – as verified by the UN truth commission report).

The extreme right wing, neoliberal government, ARENA, has been in power for 20 years. Its’ founder, Roberto D’aubuisson, was a death squadron leader, who was held responsible by the UN for the murder of the country’s Archbishop Oscar Romero.

The verses of the poem show how little has been achieved after 17 years of “democratisation”.

The “living dead” of the first verse refers to the thousands of dead people who remain on the electoral register and actually vote for the ruling ARENA party. This is achieved by giving their voting cards to foreigners who are paid to come into El Salvador from the neighbouring countries of Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua. The ruling party has been delaying a thorough review of the electoral register for two decades!

The “cowards of reaction” in the third verse are the Republican Congressmen who in the run up to the elections threatened to deport hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans and restrict the sending of money to relatives from legal Salvadoran immigrants in the USA, if the left wing FMLN were to be elected into government. There are around 2 million Salvadorans resident in the USA, about 300 000 of them have only a temporary residence status.
They send home around $40 billion every year, which is El Salvador’s biggest foreign income and a lifeline for the desperately poor Salvadoran population.

The “click of the cellular phones” in the fourth verse refers to the thousands of employees who were forced to take a photograph of their voting ballot marked for the ruling ARENA party with their cell phones and show it to their employers on the morning after the election, if not they would be dismissed. When most people in El Salvador have no proper, steady work, and earn their money in the informal sector, selling wares on the streets or washing car windscreens at traffic lights, this is not an idle threat.

The final verses refer to the many thousands who have died trying to change this terrible situation. “El cambio ha venido” is Spanish for “the change has come”. "Change is comming!" was the slogan of the left wing FMLN and the popular movement in these elections which they won by a narrow margin.

Please remember this when you next read a bigoted newspaper report on Venezuela, Bolivia or Ecuador, other countries where left wing governments are working for change to benefit the poor majorities, and ask why do they never report on the real abusers of liberty and democratic rights, The US friendly governments that cling to power by whatever means possible.

The picture is by the Salvadoran artist R. Huezo that hangs in the chapel dedicated to the murdered Archbishop Oscar Romero in the Central American University.

Eyeless in Gaza...Once again!

2009-01-13T00:29:00.000-08:00

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit.

A murderous storm passes over
and shakes the homes of Gaza,
The child huddles in the corner,
Hiccups of fear at every thud of a mortar, every incendiary flash
Every rocket tearing into the heart of the city.

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit

Our concerned leaders are making
Herculean efforts,
The Blairs, the Sarkozys, the Condoleezza Rices;
We are so near to a solution….
But there remains so much to be done.

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit.

There remains so much to be done
LIAR BLAIR!
The child no longer huddles in the corner,
She is dripping blood and flesh running off the walls
Of the ruins of Gaza City

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit.

We are so near to a solution….
LIAR SARKOZY!
The child no longer huddles in the corner,
She is the charred cinders rising into the sky
Over Gaza City.

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit.

We are in the final phases of an agreement,
LIAR CONDOLEEZZA RICE!
The child no longer huddles in the corner,
She is a heap of mangled remains
In the morgues of Gaza City.

Eyeless in Gaza,
The deaf look on
With the blank glaze
Of diplomatic deceit.

The vengeful Samson stands once again
Over the smouldering ruins of Gaza City.
Eyeless, deaf and dumb,
Together with our concerned leaders

We have reached our solution!

A Xmas Wish

2009-01-03T08:38:00.000-08:00

A poverty stricken, barefoot boy in a Third World slum was asked what his Xmas wish would be.
“I wish I was George W. Bush.” He replied.
“Is that because you want to be the most powerful person in the whole wide world?” retorted the interviewer.
“No,” replied the boy, looking down at his naked and scarred feet,
“It’s just that somebody might hopefully throw a pair of shoes at me!”

http://www.sockandawe.com/

The Ghost of Xmas Past

2009-01-01T04:31:00.000-08:00

Well now we’re finished with the idiotic revelling in consumerist overindulgence, based on the thin excuse of the birthday of an, as it were, man god, who had he ever existed as a real human being (basically no valid historical evidence for this alas) was by all the biblical (you know that book written several thousand years ago to convince a wandering Bronze age tribe in North Africa and Asia Minor that they were the top dogs/chosen people) references born in March.
Luckily for us Pope Julius 1, in the fourth century AD (400 years after a probably fictitious person) decided that the date would be 25 December. This was an attempt to reign in the pagans who insisted on the continued celebration of heathen religious festivals such as Saturnalia around the date of the mid winter solstice.

Religion is the worst thought system we humans have, it in no way represents knowledge. Atheism and religion are not two equal but different philosophies of life meriting equal respect.

The former stands for the removal of superstition allowing one to remain with a foundation of valid knowledge to build ones understanding on, the latter stands for obfuscation and the nurturing of ignorance.

Pope John Paul is dead!

2008-11-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

This poem celebrates one of the biggest frauds of the last century (in a long line from St. Peter of Alzheimer [No, I don’t know him], through Bacons' Innocent X, to the slimey RATzinger).

Some thoughts while waiting for the white smoke to creep upwards over the roof of the Sistine Chapel:

Pope John Paul is dead! So what!!

And his succsessor:

A Black Pope,

An American Pope,

A Black, American Pope,

A Pedofile Pope,

A Black, American Pedofile Pope,

A Pinochet Pope,

A Videla, a Lucas Garcia, a Ferdinand and Imelda Pope,

A Muslim Pope,

A Homosexual Pope,

A Homosexual, Muslim Pope,

A Woman Pope (another one),

An Unborn Child Pope,

A Peoples Pope,

A Pope to eradicate hunger,

A Hungry Pope,

An Angry Pope,

A Voice for the voiceless Pope,

A Voiceless Pope,

A Deaf, Dum and Blind Pope,

A strawberry flavoured condom Pope,

A Soap on the rope Pope,

A soap opera Pope (well at least a two part mini-series on CBS network )

A Monster, Raving Looney Pope,

Or just a.......

So what Pope!!

http://www.ba.no/meninger/innlegg/article1532985.ece?service=print

These cruel men with their silly hats

2008-11-06T12:52:00.000-08:00

This next one contradicts the general impression of friendly, peaceful indigenous people: Most people have the impression of the Maya Indians in Chiapas being totally supportive of the Zapatista movement. Not so. The majority of the indigenous population is controlled by a mafia like local elite steeped in perverted ancient traditions and utilised by the national ruling class (most notably the PRI) to deliver the support of their traditional communities when needed. This elite maintains its control by utilising indigenous traditions and violence. It has caused the exodus of hundreds of thousands of indigenous people who have fallen out with the traditional leaders and threatened their political and economic power. Alas, rather than joining the Zapatista movement the vast majority of these people end up with evangelical sects whose roots and politics emanate from the USA. One such place, San Juan Chamula, in the Chiapan highlands is the stronghold of these perverted traditional practices:

San Juan Chamula
These cruel men with their silly hats,
This multicoloured ethnic mafia,
Maintaining their power with ancient traditions.

500 years of successful resistance,
Resistance to threats to their all encompassing control.

Intolerance and cruel retribution,
In the name of maintaining social peace,
And cultural heritage.

But can one call culture,
That, that imprisons a people in poverty and ignorance?
Cultural analfabetism!
Cultural disease!
Cultural malnutrition!
Yes, the culture of the empty stomach!!

This is the dictatorship of tradition,
Passing on its scourge through generations,
Traditional oppression!
Traditional expulsion!
Traditional violence!
The tradition of the machete and the burning torch!!

The tradition of el pueblo tzotzil bravo y valiente de Chamula?!

Ya Basta! No?

The coalition of death

2008-10-25T04:43:00.000-07:00

George W. Bush lands on the USS Abraham Lincoln to declare victory in Iraq.

The coalition of death
The B52’s, rise in clumsy grace from the misty plains of southern England,
Pregnant with death,
Six hours away from giving birth to their bastard children.

Fathered by the loins of the powers that be,
These motherless children rain down upon the innocent,
Spreading their destruction, death, suffering.

Children torn from the rubble,
Tiny crushed and broken limbs,
Faces distorted with pain.

Pulverized skin and bone,
The smell of burning flesh intoxicates,
The impatience of vultures and maggots.

And the powers that be, Fathers to be,
In their White Houses and Streets of Down,
Await the announcement of the birth.

Lights pierce the evening sky,
The mothers of death return with vacant wombs,
And the fathers stand proud and applaud their newborn sons.

They say the pen is more powerful than the gun

2008-10-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

They say the pen is more powerful than the gun. I'm not so sure, but here's an attempt...

Bang! Bang!!

When I was growing up in a working class suburb of London, things like reading were considered a waste of time, and writing was for sissies. Poetry god forbid was just for poofs. Luckily I managed to get out of all that.

I discovered that reading and writing were not just the privilege of the ruling classes but were also important tools for gaining and transferring knowledge and awareness for the working classes. There were a lot of questions being asked at the time that I was growing up in the late sixties and early seventies: Capitalist exploitation, Imperialism, Racism, Vietnam. Alas we never came up with the answers as the self same questions are still being asked today with small variations on the theme like: Neoliberalism, Neo-colonialism, Iraq.

A lot of people who write poems don't like to explain their contents. They feel that the reader should have the task of putting into them their own personal meanings. But these observations have an inseparable connection with the events and experiences that evoked them. So I will endeavour to give an explanation of the poems as I go along to give them a context that may help to share with you a little of the joy, anger and frustration of over a half century of observing our tormented planet earth.

Literature wise it's pure amateur

We can start with some Latin American themes, the first goes way back to the beginning of the eighties in El Salvador. The time of the death squadrons and massacres. With the return of the Rapid reaction battalion “Atlacatl”, from training in the USA, the oppression in El Salvador became systematic and genocidal.

One of the worst massacres occurred in El Mozote in Morazan, over a thousand people where massacred there and in the surrounding area.

It’s only a few short lines written sitting in the ruins of the church where the children were herded in and butchered. I hope it can convey some of the fear and despair of the time.

EL MOZOTE ¡ NUNCA MAS ! (never again)

The soldiers came,

Many of them,

The brave Atlacatl,

Rapid Reaction Battalion.

Reacting rapidly,

To a Smile,

To a timid, fearful stare,

To a falling tear.

This is the other end of History... El Salvador today.

It's about the results of 16 years of neoliberal development and the breakdown of social fabric!

Pozo Macabro (Macabre well-Makaber brønn)

IN SUCHITOTO

Sitting in a rocking chair on a colonial porch,

Eating coconut icecream,

And letting my thoughts run free.

The soft tones of a sad salvadoran folk song come drifting gently over from the neighbours radio, Interrupted by the occasional thud of an overripe mango,

Dislodged by the same afternoon breeze that cools my naked torso,

And evaporates the perspiration on my forehead.

Is this Paradise?

IN SAN MIGUEL

A youth of sixteen is standing trial for seventeen sadistic murders,

After the pleasure of watching his victims suffer,

He threw their mutilated bodies into the neighbourhood well,

"El Pozo Macabro" It was christened by the terrified locals.

IN SANTA TECLA

Two sisters returning from a party with their boyfriends are abducted,

Driven to a deserted roadside,

And made to undress at gunpoint.

After violating them both,

"El Maquina", Laughing,

Shoots the one sister twice through the head,

As she kneels and pleads for her life.

Her sister, Running naked from the horror,

Is cut down by two more shots from the pitiless "Maquina".

Is this Hell?

No! This is the land of the "Saviour",

El Salvador.

Cuscatlan,

"Land of precious things",

At the close of the millennium.

After five hundred years of resistance,

Fifty years of dictatorship,

And twelve years of bloody civil war,

Peace came to El Salvador.

But with 56 000 violent murders since the ink dried on the peace accords,

It is a peace that few cherish.

The silence of my thoughts is interrupted by another thud.

One more overripe mango?

Or the lifeless body of some tortured, anonymous youth,

Announcing its arrival at the bottom of some "Pozo Macabro"?

17. mai

2008-10-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

Fools in Fools Hats!

The 17th of May is the Norwegian national day (my adopted country).
It celebrates the day in 1814 when ordinary norwegians liberated themselves from being exploited by a Danish bourgeoisie and passed to being exploited by a homegrown Norwegian bourgeoisie.
It beats me why that should be someting to celebrate!

Oh well, this poem takes a jab at the many forms of nationalism we have been through this last century, and explains in its own way why nationalism is such a diseased and corrupt tool for manipulating people and leading them away from their real liberation.

17. mai

An orgy of nationalism,
Decorated in childlike innocence,
A sugar coated cyanide pill,
Slowly poisoning a nation.

A blue six pointed star,
Hanging limp in the burning midday sun,
Over the graves of Hebron.

A vicious smile,
A chequered red and white shield,
Flapping noiselessly,
Spotlessly clean witness, casting its shadow,
Over the killing fields,
Of ethnic cleansing.

The three coloured flag of a dying empire,
Reflected in the turbulent waters of the South Atlantic,
Watching silently,
The bloated bodies bobbing up and down.

Nationalism,
Our twentieth century disease,
In Nagorno Karabakh,
In the Sudentenland,
Running wild through the streets of Magdeburg.

In the Hindu Kush and Cordillera del Condor,
Frozen fingers rest nervously on the trigger,
Ready in a moment,
To paint their bloody nationalism in the virgin snow.

And then there was the obedient Lynndie,
West Virginia mountain patriotism,
Pointing maliciously
At the hooded Mustafa

And here, on this seventeenth of May,
Along the glistening cobbled streets of Bergen,
A sea of flags,
Clenched in the tiny hands of innocent children,
Sugar coated nationalism,
Slowly poisoning a nation.

When flags become more than just pretty colours they should be unceremoniously burned!