| Wadia’s best friend’s youngest sister was denied a decent burial
|
| Because for two days they couldn’t douse the flames
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| The allied planes had showered on her tiny body.
|
| And all the paper trails that lead to all the roads
|
| That lead to all these Basras make it seem like we’re all just «collateral damage»
|
| Waiting to be happened in some unforeseen fucking Pentagon budget-drill.
|
| Today’s Ba’ath regime is just the Red Scare of yesteryear.
|
| And I drink myself to sleep because I’m losing faith
|
| That any of us will ever amount to anything more
|
| Than reluctant human subsidies,
|
| The moving parts in a death-machine,
|
| Protesting their complicity,
|
| But waiting for somebody else to throw their body on the churning gears.
|
| I drink myself to sleep because
|
| I’m losing faith that we,
|
| Here in the Cradle of Affluence can cease this sickening drive
|
| For individual strength through state-powers' swinging fists
|
| Or that we’ll ever look back and laugh at the irony that is:
|
| An atomic murderer is enshrined in Independence,
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| USA while 8000 miles from here (back in the Cradle of Democracy)
|
| It’s another banner year for a cottage industry
|
| A ritual at the corner of George and Constantine
|
| As foundries scramble to recast his decapitated monument. |