POEM: Subjugation Withdrawal

My tyrants are dying.
And already I've realized
The mistake spread through
all our moves.

We partied, bringing down their statues
Thinking the concrete was an obstacle
To our freedom

Non-concrete
They linger around,
Serving as comfort
For the new world's hesitation

Weakness stored up,
by their stoppering feet
Unleashed as explosions,
Crushing insights

The paradise they stepped on
Is suddenly no closer

All the nights spent talking
With them
Only weaken the struggle
Slogans and forts,
in fragility, equal
to theirs

All dissolved
by the security of an ungripped shoulder
or an open cell

POEM the hair on your brushes

maybe even now they are watching us.
in whatever far off replication of what we now watch
they will see it with microscopes, with disease
with little quantum things even five year olds will know of


but how will all their disgust and contempt
be mediated by what we now know?

Anyone who now sees the hair,
Wound round the brush
Cleans it regularly
is utterly apart from this time
and held in contempt

While we ghosts
lose
ourselves
in our voices
complaining
that
we shouldnt have to know