A Poem of sorts, to the medieval warmongers who decieve their fellow citizens in the service of a foreign power!

THE RAIN POLISHED COBBLED STREETS OF BERGEN

I woke up this morning, and there were no mushroom clouds casting their ghastly shadows over the valleys and mountains of Laksevåg.

No killer rain pouring down and dissolving the skin of screaming children;

only the never ending grey, cold, Bergen drizzle, polishing the cobblestoned city streets.

Haakonsvern was no grotesque firework display, and Bryggen, no smouldering heap of rubble with the stench of burning flesh.

And Oslo? Berlin? Paris? Kiev?

They lied to us, AGAIN!

Our elected representatives. The European Vice-ministers for USAs foreign interests: “Rock Solid” Jens, Resolute Anniken, and Odd Roger the Dodger.

Painfully irresponsible, subservient echo-chambers for a dying imperial mad house.

Speaking the deceitful twinned language of the forked tongue; one reserved for insulting the intelligence of those they should serve, the other to reap kudos from the ones they really serve.

They took us to the brink, willing to tinker with the latches on the Gates of Hell, to please the Emperor Nero in his house of White.

But the emperor and his acolytes stand naked now, in their shameful, guilty embarrassment. Their lies revealed for all the world to see. We must never give them another chance!

The never ending grey, cold Bergen drizzle must continue to polish the cobblestoned city streets. For our children, and our children’s children.

RESIGN you regurgitated medieval mongers of war! elected mercenaries bereft of all integrity; your time has come! And GONE!

Still standing up, at Standing Rock

From the Napituca Massacre to Wounded Knee,
A history of lies, deceit and broken treaties,
500 years of war against the Indian nation,
This was the white man’s gift of civilization.

History re-written like some John Wayne Western movie,
The savages saved from their pagan destitution,
Their children re-educated, their culture defiled,
Their traditions commercialized or merely reviled.

Forced from their homelands on a Trail of Tears,
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.

9 million Indian graves on the wind-swept plains,
No Declaration of Independence, No land of the free,
No American dream, or manifest destiny,
For the Sioux, Navaho, Apache and Cherokee.

Ethnic cleansing, extermination, assimilation, subjugation,
Stolen lands and stolen bison,
Reservations for cultural assassination,
Buffalo Warriors in a stolen nation.

Forced from their homelands on a Trail of Tears,
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.

Now they come for their water, for their holy grounds,
Riot police with their gnashing hounds,
National Guard, rubber bullets, tear gas,
Against protectors of mother earth and their ancestral past.

From Bagdad to Benghazi, from Caracas to Kuwait,
The pipelines come first, the environment can wait,
People mean nothing when Oil is at stake,
From Amazonas to Dakota, Lofoten to Maracaibo lake.

Forced from their homelands on a Trail of Tears,
With wounded hearts on broken knees,
Still standing up, at Standing Rock,
Across the wide Missouri.       

Sweet Sixteen

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 develope 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

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

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!

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!

Eyeless in Gaza, 

The deaf look on 

With the blank gaze 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 gaze 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 gaze 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 gaze 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 gaze 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 gaze 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!