Four (a poem)

We were born in the blackened metropolis of a society
that served us strychnine with baby fruit puree

We breathed cancer in the open air
swallowing hypocrisy and delusion
feeling the loneliness of urban psychiatric terrain
inside our skin

We danced our sorrows onto pedestrian streets
filled with grief and reactionism
and ran whenever we had to get away
screamed whenever we had to yell
and these howls were more powerful than sirens

I remember weeping every so often
I remember being a small child
and perhaps a bit of this child is still buried
at nights when we shout our chants
perhaps it’s still hidden in words
that are written to demystify a loathsome realistic scenery

Perhaps this child is the howl
that will break down the walls and prison bars
that will crush batons and hands of the authoritarians
whose brains are in complete decay

I spit in their empty eyes! I flirt with freedom!

And so, my comrades, I believe it’s time we devoured them!

It’s time we cut off the heads one by one from the Hydra
celebrating the end of their hostile dystopia

I therefore speak of that magic moment
where all you need is to have rage

Because rage is to have soul

source: diskordia