Enlistment. Crying, peeing, eyes seething
She was silent. So we checked her for breathing
But she was fine. So off to training, what everyone deserves
We tell her, "March in straight lines."
She clings to her curves.
Now, the rebel. The world spins, a round of depravity
The noose tied and untied, but no-one defies gravity
Or us. So she's promoted. Soon obsolete
No rifles to defend her from the whistles on the street.
Of course, she stops. Waits for the bullet-storm to pass
But there are no guns. Just a ceiling of glass
And cracks through which we pour the burning oil
Get married.
Have children.
Don't you want a family?
Get married.
Have children.
Don't you want a family?
She fights, she toils.
Could she have survived for very long? Improbable.
She trades a white flag for a rifle and
We're unstoppable.
Unstoppable.
But we never could make her forget
The spinning gun barrel, the russian roulette
That withers, slithers. It loses its humour:
A blackout, a fallout, a malignant tumour
Tubes feed her (procedure), we say unplug, her end is nigh
And bullets fly.
bullets
fly.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
