8 September 2015

Paradise child

There isn’t a North or South here, honey child,
we are one moment of stone carved and re-carved,
borne from the earth, held inside this mountain
that sits upon its heart. Besides, all of our towns
are like angles of one facet, little tapers through
the blood of night with a lustre awaiting edges
of shovels. Just like faces angels show to earth.
But we’ve fashioned bayonets out of those shovels,
and bayonets know only one way to dig things out.
Anything which gazes East-West is the same rock,
to tell us about the presence of silence. Oh there is
an after-thought after desiring peace and getting it,
much like with fucking, there’s a single one, and it’s
the prospect of nobler sex in future. Even against
gravity the head stands up, even against the promise
of a broken lifespan; and it stands out like an arm
holding a 10 pound burden, and it says: better luck
next time, buddy, at daunting me; and then says:
but come, I want to tell you about our country,
our own little kingdom. It started with the magnet
our fathers used to pull it out of rotting days—
it was a mess. In secret they packed it here
in us, under our name, like bodies in a cemetery.
You have to understand that this country is a tomb
of the known fighter. But come, take this piece of me
to understand what is presence in silence, take it
now, it’s no bomb, it is the tip of some old iceberg
covered by years, those frivolous diamond years
whose voices are audible elsewhere, but never here
where the earth-rock breathes like a baby inside
the liquid of a mountain womb. If you place your ear
against it you’ll see what I mean, you’ll hear life
burbling a sound of friendship and of freedom
which will never be born, which will never be born.
The shovel-holders know the torrent of the river
more than the mountain, and they make it swish
its tail down the trail like an eel. And they smile,
take their tools to praise the name Koeeoko. We
have no prophets, our last one is dead, long live
the memory of the stone in his blood, of his refusal
to bend to the will of their knife. If happiness
will never be reborn, perhaps now that the man
Maaparankoe is gone the child of an unborn child
will spatter his way out, though if that means joy,
then another vein must be cut. No one knows if
we’ll find comfort there; I do not think we will.

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