Reign of the Quisling-Rodents

BENIGHTED

9 That once made – of my neighbourhood – A shunned home And of me, A denigrated immigrant In my neighbourhood You couldn’t stand it at all The things your eyes should hear; Not at all The things your ears should see So therefore You’ll do well to stick fingers in your nostrils So as not to hear a word In my neighbourhood Do well to stick fingers in your ears So as not to smell a thing In my neighbourhood… BENIGHTED Spittle-wine in legislation-bottle, stoppered with deceit I drink it at socio-economic gun point Mistake not – for a squint in the hot sun – My grimace of pain, O friend an ocean away! See me here, in this artist’s impression – unlike An x-ray photo – of the bare-bodied: No torso but a rib cage, in this Skinning alive of pseudo-compatriots 10 To make drums of eerie rub-a-dubs For the dance of vampires; Perpetrators of the greed that starves me To this skeleton in my country’s cupboard. And the dead dig graves in which to bury their living BELIEF I am a sufferer Of pains More excruciating Than molten magma on the skin So when karmic numbness Shall deaden The hand that clutches That leash on the apocalypse of volcanoes, On un-cringing feet I shall be standing I am a sufferer Of hurts More unbearable Than the sudden chopping off Of the finger as you slam the country’s main door Hard against our hand to the hinge So when streaming tears Shed from twenty million pairs of weeping eyes ...