Monday, November 30, 2009

History is bunk!



I spit
on the history of cities,
constructed
with sword and skulls,
myths created
by torturers,
architects of slaughter.
Ranged along broad streets,
( firepaths on their secret plans ),
statues of these butchers abound.

And in their hushed libraries,
mouldering books
clutter each shelf,
economical catalogues
of facts chosen
to perpetuate the deadly toll
of profit and loss.
Let sleeping books lie.

Nature knows
their every secret
and shits on their smug faces,
slowly erodes
each self-satisfied smile,
wipes carved stone
clean.

This poem has been lying around for long enough. It didn't take much dusting down.