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Two Poems by Allan Kolski Horwitz

What the hell

Day isn’t done+++ yet
++++++++++ so you breathe and fart and kiss
++++++++and slope down into a state of capture
when the architecture of isystem
+++++and there are troubles +++troubled times
++++++++++and day to day ++is fraught with danger

+++hell+++ identity rules
++++++++++and each defines a narrow turf
++++tribes bear their totems
++++++++++ghettos proliferate
++while+++ the empires of monopoly and clique
+++++++++++++++++suck in vaaast fortunes

but still day isn’t done+++ yet
++++++++++hate comes out to play
++++++++ the shackles of past crime still cling
+++++++++ class and caste dominate
and then+++ fast forward
++++as midnight approaches
++ you are in the right place at the wrong time bro
+++++++++++++++++or is it just the way
++++++++++ the dialectic crumbles . . .

++++++++++You can’t breathe
++++your hands are tied
++++you stand your ground
++++but the ground
++++collapses under you

++++the weight of the past is too
++++heavy for you to stand on

And always then+++ when
++++++++++ the dialectic grinds
++ you reach for the warmth of her sex
+++++++++++for is not the motor of history
++++++++++++++++++++ power going forward

++ and you both gasp in the slip stream
you both refuse to come up for air

++++++++++ what the hell . . .


One point two billion living on the polluted banks of a caste-ridden Hindu ethno-nationalist river
Another one point three billion living under the glare of a totalitarian Communist Confucian robot
Over six hundred million in the Cradle of Humankind crushed under the belly of the Big Man and his sadistic cohorts
Over four hundred million stretched on a rack of sunglasses by pouting colonials and Bolivarian generalissimos
Another three hundred and forty million dangling at the end of kryptonite missile heads emblazoned with stars and stripes
And close by another two hundred odd million bored by Brussels and strangled with the toxic tape of snarling lily-white borders
Rivalled only by the one hundred million licking the KGB’s lips with their frozen sweat
And then there are the seventy-four hundred million women forced to robe the rape fantasies of bearded children
And the five hundred and twenty-nine million depressives devoted to gurus who ride pope mobiles over the cliff
And the thirteen million paedophiles porning their hormones while chanting the bitch names of their Heavenly Mother

And so we compose our swansong extinction