It’s an urge to make clear

The plans of Man
The hidden can
Of worms
Plying trades of war
Implicating others
Complicating that smothers
Reasonable response
Belittles ordinary concern,
Until the urge to complain
To make clear
To be with plain
Speaking
To put the l into pain
Erupts, ejaculates,
Explodes through the contraception
Of weasel wording,
Willing to find the germ
Willing to find the conception
Willing to find the division
That unites the two worlds
Cells splitting harmoniously
Cells of light
Cells of excellence
Cells of redemption
Cells of Love’s Body.
Complain then to the leaders
Complain to the false deliverers
Complain to the ill rich
Complain to the hypocritical everywhere
The pretending beggaring of belief
The deliberate smashing of Al Latif
Complain in writing, peacefully
Fill their boxes with true concern
“Dear richest men, you’re very ill
Nobody wants to be you any more
Nobody wants obscene riches
Nobody wants to be one of the 8
Nobody wants millions and billions
While humanity dies
Like so much freight
Under your upturned nose.”

Posted from WordPress for Windows Phone

About Andrew Dettman

Counsellor, poet, cabbie, diction worker. Ministrant.
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