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Battered Children

By       Message David Glenn Cox       (Page 1 of 1 pages)     Permalink

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Battered
(Image by Prestanto Djete)
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Loneliness is a crowded solitude,

darkness a cold blanket.

Tomorrows are but yesterdays revisited.

Life in neutral pastel suns fear losing the moon.

The coins in my pocket warn me of their own loneliness,

jingling in the pockets of fear.

Don't need no gasoline pumps or mega bars,

nothing to hold on to much and unable to reach the stars.

I found that I was lost, abandoned along the roadside of America.

I'm a rusting fence with a broken gate with posts a leaning on horizon's
pickets. Children of the corporate whores who long for a mother's touch
and receive only the back of her hand. We are the battered children of
this lost, lost land.

Vote for Willard, vote for Newt don't really matter much, just another
bastard in a three piece suit. Vote for Obama, vote for drama, Vote for
TV, vote for you and me. Lost like single payer, forgotten and put away,
put down like strays. Made to disappear and made to go away. To not
look at you is to not see you and to not see you proves that you're not
there.

The metamorphosis is Kafkaesque, as the roaches rise and then reflect.
Maybe just a glance, perhaps, just a look in their eye, all animals
aren't equal but all animals do die. The propagandists scream with the
promises of melting lies, of days of bright futures answered on a day
the concrete flies. Coloring books of revolution after dinner mints of
the estranged, I saw the best minds of my generation sleeping in a
ditch.

I'm tired of being calm I'm tried of being fair; I'm tried of remaining
optimistic and receiving only blank stares. I'm tired of being told that
it's all my fault, I'm tired of being told that we shouldn't have
bought. I count forty million put out into the cold, living in the state
of precariousness. Living in the state of invisibility, living there
anonymously and living there with you and me.

Fifty hollow stars against a field of red and white, blood or surrender,
blood and sand, blood and last stand, living in the dignity of mud,
sleeping with the abbreviated rights of man. The monster factory churns
as the anger simmers and burns, Michelle asks if "Your In?" I answer
sure, urine. Piss on my head and tell me its raining, tell about your
straining. Tell me about the jobs bill which helps only you; tell me how
high the lamp post when our feet won't touch the ground.

Italian cars made in Mexico hamburger made with sh*t, forecasts made
with dollars signs each telling you, you don't fit. You have no rights,
you have no home, you have no money, so you'll sleep alone. Rapt in a
flag whose colors begin to run washed away by the children's tears and
muddied by the boots of the setting sun. To live, to die, lost in a life
of honest crime dodging the predators and the banking slime.

Time passes slowly and I'm a day older tell me about the rabbits George;
tell me about the new world order. Tell me about the jobs of the future
and of our lives to come and I'll tell you the truth of things, if you
think it might be fun. I'll tell you about the broke down cars, broke
down minds and about broken hearts, about the tears of teachers and
about the nights so dark. I'll tell you a tale of unloved children, of
children battered and bruised, of children pilfered and used.

Such a tale might seem impolite but I gonna say it cause I think it's
alright. About a people scorched for the love of another, about sacred
books and credit hooks about the war without and the war within, of
hearts of gold and badges made of tin. Tis a story of the muddled masses
yearning to breathe stupid, of bible thumpers and border jumpers of
burkas and bizzerko's, of creationists and plantationists, about the
platonic and the merely sardonic.

I see dark roiling fires of hell building in the night skies above, a
dagger's thought, a love unbought. Children in the night, the sons and
daughters unloved, rejected by the nation they're supposed to love. A
sword, a board, a brick and more, the justice of the innocents avenged
upon the whore. The death of the warrior is the phoenix of the righteous
once through falling on their sword. Time is short and money is plenty
life is precious to those without any.

So cut the children, buy them missiles and ice cream, buy the seniors
U-boats and snuff out their life long dreams. There is no more vacation
season so get your ass back to work, remember how you got here, and
remember how you'll go. A pyrrhic victory is a victory still, let's talk
about it in hell. Let's tell them so they know the mavens and
mavericks, the saviors and just plain dicks. The experts and sexperts,
the bankers and the yankers, the pushers and the pullers who swore this
wouldn't hurt

Loneliness is a crowded solitude,

darkness a cold blanket.

Tomorrows are but yesterdays revisited.

Life in neutral pastel suns fear losing the moon.

The coins in my pocket warn me of their own loneliness,

jingling in the pockets of fear.

Don't need no gasoline pumps or mega bars,

nothing to hold on to much and unable to reach the stars.

I found that I was lost, abandoned along the roadside of America.

I'm a rusting fence with a broken gate with posts a leaning on horizons
pickets. Children of the corporate whores who long for a mother's touch
and receive only the back of her hand. We are the battered children of
this lost, lost land.

 

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I who am I? Born at the pinnacle of American prosperity to parents raised during the last great depression. I was the youngest child of the youngest children born almost between the generations and that in fact clouds and obscures who it is that I (more...)
 

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