Wrinkles on our dreams


35

Wrinkles on our dreams

I woke with marble in my hands
What does it mean?
I am descendent of centuries
Not independent, not autonomous

I am a falling into dreams
Of generations and pupils of elders
It would be very difficult
To think of myself as separate

I inherit euro-centric bias
And I take part unwittingly in patriarchy
I live in an economic simulation
What does this mean?

It means reality is not culture
Social conditions is only a layer
Of existence, my hands disappear
In my dreams, for I know my ancestors

Committed murder, waged false wars
So a few could profit
And the many would remain slaves
Feudalism never died, it only

Masked itself in a homogenous
Globalization of pretend liberties
I wake up with dreams of my own
That I’ve likely been programmed for

My desires are the software
And I am the obedient application
I labour, I do what I am told
How can I innovate in a world

In a world where strangers
Are competitors and scarcity
Is a growing concern of failing economies
I haven’t seen myself in the mirror
Where has my soul gone to visit?

Notes on World War III


11

God and all angels sing the world to sleep
For the end of the world is man made
With the blue tongue of greed, control
The Moon burns in the mind of history

Where war and politics are the domain of the corrupt
Staring, at midnight, into the Angel of Death
A catastrophic power play of midget nations
Yet life is itself, the fulfillment of petty desires

Money, the pillow of the head in the dark
Power, the bent over guitar of the green day
Organics thick-lipped, riot and rebel
For a new world that cannot be born

Till the old world dies of its own inflation
God and all angels sing the world to sleep
That we might die, for others to take our place.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/D-R-E-A-M-S-398472986

Language at the End of the World


67

To lighten up language, I’ve/
Dug deeper, soared higher
A grassroots entry into oblivion

The little landscapes collected/
Of a billion lives, varieties, in-commons
To become a single blade of grass

Or a single bead of flowing water/
That’s the first conundrum
To identify with everything

Purely, without pretence/
I do not barter light and dark
They simple are, like the macrocosm

Of my internal states, I mirror them well/
With is neither grief nor joy
But only peace, nature, what is –

Time will tell if I listened or loved/
This world well, with my lack of vitality
To lighten up language, I’ve

Blown in your direction, across/
Buried cities, with little saliva
In my mouth for the end-of-times

I’ve dreamed apocalypse would be/
Not so different, as the sweet oblivion
Of a dying world, that thrives if only
For it’s artificial growth.