Tag: social commentary

The Temptress

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I

Make room, you people!

Start digging a hole.

It’s not about who you know,

It’s about who you control.

The magazines said it best:

She’s a vicious beast.

Lower those lip corners

But never ever head east.

Hide your sons in the attic,

Raise your daughters with pride.

If her scent still lingers,

Make sure that you hide.

II

“Yet another fragile victim is joining the ranks

Of those she seduced with bullets and tanks.”

“Could he truly fall for her sardonic gaze?

Did the blade run through or did it gently graze?”

“Were her lips cherry red when she said the words?”

“I bet he fiercely fought her crooked swords.”

“She killed that marriage, she must be punished,

Ripped apart at the seams, starved and banished.”

III

My homeland has no enemies,

My palace has no door.

It’s my essence that frightens them.

La petite mort.

A victim of their making

In the devil’s clothing.

Their eyes follow me north

Where I am decomposing.

The fingers point at me,

Their tongues shoot right through.

It took me twenty years

To wrangle this little zoo.

My country has no traitors,

My palace has no gate.

Come right in and test me.

If you dare, take the bait.

-Jackie

Whisper The Name

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My tongue gets sour and bitter, it dreams up revenge fantasies.

A while back I hired it a babysitter

But it still screams out violent prophecies.

They try to bite me with their fangs, strip me of the power,

Acting as the god almighty

While I recklessly destroy and devour.

And I know they refuse to be scared of my baby pink guts.

But my blade, it makes moves.

It doesn’t stop until someone else rots.

My teeth get blacker with each hex that I spew at their swords.

But they’ve brought their hijackers,

They take over my thoughts and words.

Although I know it’s too late, my tongue sharpens its knives

Ready to unleash all the hate

Right back at their crooked hives.

So the bitterness slips away, I trip on its tails while it passes,

And I’m fit to fight again

Until they whisper my name in history classes.

-JW

Your Left Lung

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You questioned whether the city isn’t overwhelming me these days,

I hid little anxieties in the rasp of my voice when whispering the “nays”.

Maybe just by an accident or a loop in the system you truly believed

That on Sunday nights I’m not punching the stewing hot air in my sleep.

You saw me crumble behind the walls, you crumpled up my courage,

And the city was to blame for all my fear lacking proper storage.

The others stared in disbelief and their fury made my nostrils flared,

Somehow I carried my worries home as my silly pride got bared.

And you condemned my choices but still talked about every single one.

This blame game is the worst side-effect of living behind the gun.

My trigger finger shakes when you run marathons with your tongue

But I’ve never wasted a bullet – so you can rumour away your left lung.

-JW

Some Grace

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There was some grace in our bones back in the golden days,

The knots in our chest didn’t set themselves ablaze like hay.

The guns we carried in our tongues only hurt on Sunday nights

And the batteries in our chests didn’t lose spite or light.

We spun faster but landed gently on fire-proof conclusions,

Nowadays we let the inferno rain as the most merciful solution.

The safety triggers stay buried like old tales for naïve kids,

But still – we almost feel sorry for blowing off these rusty lids.

The sun only shines on us by accident and we somehow thank it,

As if the world itself met us and asked for a safety blanket.

And they keep spitting up poison when preaching grand forgiveness,

It seems that they only speak up to polish their crumbling business.

Hence I put down the iron keys and walk away from the fright,

Some say I’m the only one to risk it – and perhaps they’re even right.

Not that I have time to hear them out, I must step out in the rays.

There’s some grace in the flesh that doesn’t preach the olden ways.

-JW

Burning From Both Ends

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Time only stops for those who outrun it, no wonder this city doesn’t age.

These days are all the yesterdays, and tomorrow’s locked in a silver cage.

We rush down the boulevards, around the parks and through tall buildings,

The concrete in our lungs feels sweeter than betrayals or deserved killings.

But the air keeps changing its flow through the spaces we once worshiped.

All the unsteady boats in our neon ports look more like grey warships.

And the catacombs of our minds leak like candles burning from both ends.

The towers bend and the walls are closing in on those who swore to defend.

“If you have the courage, then I also have the courage to run even faster,”

We try to calm ourselves with these phrases to please the blue masters.

Yet – time only chases those who outrun it, no wonder we carry this rage.

All our yesterdays melt into blurry mist and the time is knocking again,

Asking to turn the next page.

-JW

Glass Limousine

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I see my refection in store windows and taxis,

It would be a lie if I told you it’s not taxing

And it would be a travesty to tell you I can sleep

When I’ve spent years driving this glass limousine.

Everyone’s seen the uphill battles in real time,

Cheered for the downfalls, paid for some new grime.

The climb is what really bores them to death

So they clap way too loud, and I take it as a threat.

But while they’re observing, I thrive in the blind spots,

I build a life out of fumes in case this car stops.

One day they’ll run out of gasoline to feed it,

One day it’ll devour all these low-hanging people.

Until then I keep driving, hiding weapons under covers,

And I hold my hope close like a hopeless lover.

I still see my reflection in chic silverware and screens

But it would be a lie if I told you that nowadays

I don’t also see it raindrops and trees.

-JW

The Monsters

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The monsters under my bed keep craving pure flesh,

The nails on their feet scratch harder when I try to start fresh.

But there isn’t a real bone in my broken body

So I never scream when they aim to cut or disarm me.

The monsters under my bed are stabbing my back,

Whenever I switch on the screen, they paint the room black.

And I know their feeding, they’re growing stronger each time

I let them pull me into the burning limelight.

-JW

The City Calls

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The walls within this sickly concrete sea monster always look too dull,

The faces are greyer than October sky, barely sticking to their skulls.

I bury all clues and shotguns where I know I’d never step my foot again

And blend in with the walls, breathing in fumes and fresh propane.

The lines are long but I’m used to waiting for an uneventful death.

Each humanoid figure around is the same – everything but a real threat.

We submissively march to the music and lower our eyes when it stops.

Some ashy buildings appear on the horizon just as my stomach drops.

I can sense the electric nervousness strings overtaking the numb crowd.

This is the moment we could run for cover – only if we were allowed.

Instead we brace for impact as cement fills the streets, we are tongue tied.

We’ve been taught since a very young age:

When the city calls, you must always be ready to die.

-JW

Careful What You Swear By

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If you promise a pound of flesh, you must deliver.

If you promise two, you must also give away the liver.

Even when you do not recall a blood oath made,

You must pull yourself into pieces

In the spirit of fair trade.

When the devil comes to collect your debts again,

Tell it to go and bleed dry your best friends instead.

To survive, you must really focus on existing

And you cannot do that with pride

Or morals in your system.

After all that has been done, you should remember –

One day you will not be able to blame your bad temper

For wilfully slipping deeper into the machine.

But you cannot admit it

So you swear by the silver screen.

-JW

Seven / Intruder

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I must have the seven arcs in a story,

Must have a seven step program to glory.

There are seven pages and seven scripts,

Seven ways to pull the same old trick.

Seventeen stooges with velvet guns,

Burning barrels of Seagrams 7 for fun.

The seventh son was the last to survive –

His mother was twenty seven

When she fell on a knife.

Seven hundred soldiers dying in heat.

Vultures watching hungered by the defeat.

Crashing into a wall with a grey 7-seater.

A seven part plan to kill and elect

The new world leader.

-JW