Voodoo Machinegun in Dminor

This is an older poem from 2006 that  I am periodically working on.

Voodoo Machinegun in Dminor.

New trail of tears,
mark minaret skies
with chemical lines-
child’s face
married to death,
dust, sand
at roadside
New Cherokees
old world
worn & cracked blankets-
Grand Old Republic of Fever-
Technologically precise

Sometimes childern wake up
wrapped in televised screams.

There are no more
sweet shotgun nostalgias-
no Mom
no apple pie
unless Mom is found
to be
baked inside
the delicately
flaky crust
like some black
& white
creature feature
cannibal surprise.

Here we bleed real, like
Norman Rockwell on a cross.

Throw out
your plastic dashboard
Man,That god
won’t work here
Light the candle.
Howl Kaddish.
Run like hell.
Cold African water.

hands grow up
like grass
as green
as cash-
or yellow
in the front yard,
flowers with chalked
of brown dinge –
roots run deep,
It doesn’t matter
whether hands
are at your plate,
or weeds weave themselves
at your door.

War your meat real.
Tear cellophane away
& feel
iced old
chicken blood
drizzle down

This sings ancient-
This drums
the father’s…

Electric nox.

Look deep
with dirty hands-
reds, browns,

Keep your meat real-
“Welcome to Karbala.and
keep your head down.

                      -Seti I Shadim

 (C) copyright protected.


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