Wednesday, June 17, 2009


In Tehran they are sleepless,
the acrid rank reek of leather and gas,
the cries of blood beaten.
The Secret Police are the corpuscles in the streets.
In Tehran, that small scrap of volition ripped
ripped from the ballot box,
like a child from a womb in the middle of atrocity.
In Tehran they are sleepless.
The world, it is rocking,
to 3:3 GMT.

And so are we.
That last scrap of illusion ripped from us,
like the candy that teethes the infant's pain,
we are facing reality, grim cold
once, now, and again.

In America we are sleepless,
but it is a different night,
the sun travels round so far
that midnight falls
as the sun takes Tehran into it's arms.

Here we have betrayed,
the lights of our losses,
forgotten the fury,
and fermented a brew,
as foul and fetid,
as any before.
We have tossed aside so called hope,
and voted for war.

In America we are sleepless,
watching each line,
and hoping that somehow,
in English it rhymes.

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