Concrete poetry - slither


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#whyringling

This place, it saddens me.  The closer I get to the end the clearer I see the trap that's been so neatly woven around it. All these people mashed together in a hotpot of nerves and broken spirits.  The constitution that was supposed to be a beacon, turned out to be the money bin of Uncle bloody Scrooge. Grasping tight for the dollars, even when we ask for new chairs we get hand-me-downs from the more fortunate;  The golden cows, the ones that are expected to carry the name and lure in more cash.  We are the less fortunate; the bastard child of this configuration. Yet even the money cows don’t have a say. They are expected to fall in line, do the work and keep their yaps shut. They came here with dreams, just like the rest of us. But even they got disregarded for the ever growing sea of golden coins that make up the foundation on which we stand.  Somewhere along the way we became forgotten.  Slaves to the constitution even though WE are the ...
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Murals

Why why why so many murals of hateful things; waves are towering across the town, the moon the moon devours us All good things must die in shame all bad things must live in piece. Even so the nightingale calls with tremors of the earth with roars like engines; Machines digging across the yard Searching for a new earth beneath the soil bones like gold, bones like watches.    Time and time again we see the landscape of your forehead beating us like waves; slap, slap, slap of meat. Squirrels rushing to fill the juicy cave with nuts of gold piece after piece after piece of crushed glass cuts at my feet and the blood becomes an ocean. Rubies of glimmering sundrops drop drip drop    down to the earth and bones and the creatures that live yet further beneath drip drop drop    of blood and rain and sundrops sunlight on the moon moonlight on the gravelled road, the graveyard road peacocks walking their pretty necks outstretched to catch a glim...
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