Tripoli

The revolution spits and moans,
But they are not watching,
Obsessed by beauty,
Oblivious of the ugly faces,
They can only see their masturbation.

We are crossing fingers,
We are a heap of bodies,
Sighing in the brownish colors,
Desperately springing from,
Pissy yellow stinking corners,

The good are better, still
The damp get damper,
Entwined in the umbers,
Of the world ablaze,
Our bodies are not forever,
Our cries resonate into space,
And dart through emptiness,
Unheard by white people,
And other animals.

They will shoot us with their bang bang dummy guns,
The clowns and sillies, the dogmatic and the idiots,
Will violently rape our mouths and asses,
They will puke their bombs into our bellies,
Until we are all,
Pregnant with hatred.

We will all die,
And as our corpses vanish,
The world will not whisper,
Will not cry, not scream, not agonise,
Well, maybe,
No probably,
There will be some commercials,
And some loser,
In a fat land far away,
might write a poem,
About us,
Hooray.

That’s how the sad story goes,
Been going on for a long time,
But that’s just history,
What’s worse,
There are no omens,
For a happy ending.