burned out welcome

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus

burned out welcome

time happens when you are not
paying attention
because it costs too much
so we float, on and on

no boats to shore the Tired and Poor fragments
of this steely, steely wheel
that rusts and screeches as we feel

like

Huddled Masses of Happy Meals

eaten up by pointing Posters,
by those grey worms that burrow
into us
and contemptuously refuse to open the door

some can see it, the steel-grey Beast
and name it with devastating power —
“it’s crazy that today we have Capital streaming through our capitol”
“perfect, how capital!” — the same response floatingly echoes
through its iron eyes and bloodless face

from the island of the Mother of Exiles
we see the grey worms
jumping over time’s outstretched arm
who has been suspended because
he keeps repeating himself

ah wherefore all this wormy circumstance
the armies of the night cried
in blood from stinging whip
little blue birds sang jug jug jug
battered back by the pussygrabbing winds
filia upon filia fell like philomela
only male nightingales can sing
for horror is muted hey ding a ling

strangers killed others because —
aujourd’hui maman —
that’s how life goes for some
feeling the steely necklace chain on their chest
with their hands up:
“yea, though I walk through the…” —

bang

or so they say it goes
the shimmering timeless moment
before the filia clutches at her father’s

torn shirt
a hole here, a hole there
Silent Lips everywhere
no more wholes anywhere

and I keep holding, paddling
at the shattered shards of hearts
while our Beacon-Hand is burnt out
because there’s no shore
only static Teeming Shores
all is shorn

bind up the brokenhearted
the tempest tossed
by the soldered Golden Door
to proclaim
a Sea-Washed brave new world

commanded by Mild Eyes but
only a placeholder for worship
in grey matters where birds are bound
and in anti-kneeling flags on war ships

tell me

into which torturous, slippery,
sharp, clean-cut and tangled of a
maze of steel walls and shining cities on a hill
do you crush, gnaw, and mash her so efficiently?

Who?

is she hidden behind the trickle-down curtain
behind the Sunset Gates
sitting alone under dusty grey-glass ceiling windows
while an illusory Sun wickedly shines on the horizon
waiting to sell us the last rope?

Who?

tell me

do you have her grinding away
at your every beck and call
at that caustic Machine churning out starstripes
of pages ending — “… and justice for all”?

Who?

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