Fathering

How can this rage not explode? Her eyes
looking but not seeing, glued yet

wandering. She’s nowhere, she’s
everywhere, seeking refuge where

I don’t exist or where I
am dead or just a twig she feeds

to the flame, blue with her
wrath. She has mastered the contours of

my anger and I still grope along
the fence of her defense. Isn’t silence

sweet? Then why the muteness my voice
has summoned deafens me now?

Where is the shore of this howling
sea of reticence? How can a clever

plan fail? – trap her in a minor
encounter where even her faintest

meow is enough to unlock her
lies and the torrent of diatribes I have

long nurtured. But how can
I bear her empty stare? Her
frozen gaze that sets me ablaze?

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long live the peasants

lying on your threadbare banners
beneath the canopy of smog,
you hum your dreams of home, of land
against the cold fence of the DAR.

all the pains you endure
i endure like the crown of thorns
that pierced the Saviour’s soul;
and my heart weeps: rage, rage.

a, tonight, this rage will explode,
i shall witness the final set;
my heart will dance: long live ely!
long live eraserheads!