ARTICLE CATEGORY: Poetry Page
Stand in the Light
The Editor asked author David Coyote for a contribution from his most passionate work.
Here is his stunning offering--a free form poetic saga dedicated to the World Bank.
David Coyote
March 9, 1993
A free form poetic saga dedicated to the World Bank.
Shut eyes
against images of death.
Wash away ideas.
Rinse away dreams.
Muddy all rivers of hope.
Arms around the neck of the bull,
lips pressed against black flesh,
blade in hand
seek the heart
of the beast,
horns reach out,
blood gushes from mouth,
sand stains with ineptitude,
the crowd screams.
Death!
Death!
Death!
Blinding heat,
the sun.
Leave
walls of fear,
walls of pride,
walls of protection.
Walk into the circle
where all can see
savage horns
cut scythe-like.
Open my heart.
Spill my life
for the thirst of all,
each breath closer
to the last.
They cheer
the beast.
Nostrils distended,
tongue hangs,
head shakes;
suit of lights splits
on terrible horns
tastes pending
death.
Blood of envy,
blood of pretense,
blood of children
not born;
wait in the sun,
wait for heroes,
wait for life
to lift their hopes
above the mean greed of business;
of men in silk suits,
fat men in expensive cars,
innocent flesh trembles,
clothed in unmentionable
erotic dreams
to satisfy
the insatiable.
Blood flowing.
Blood flowing.
Blood flowing.
Currency.
Fat pocket-rolls
stolen from the poor,
teases the envious,
tempts the weak,
taunts the pure,
dirty fingers
lift morsels
to vulgar lips,
suck the flavor,
savor from life.
Blood red wine
runs in obscene
rivulets from chins,
dribbles down shirt-fronts
stretched across gluttony.
Choruses of mechanical
warplane laughter falls
from the skies
in smoke filled rooms,
eyes blinded by indifference.
Breath of innocents
fall silent in the face
of such greed.
Not one scream
can be heard
above the chainsaw.
It takes the last tree.
Not one sob
heard above the sounds
when the cash register
rings up
the last sale.
Not one tear
heard falling
to unloved earth
when boots come,
when guns speak,
when old generals
order youth to death
on rotting
fantasies of
power.
Kiss the bull.
Tear open your heart.
Embrace the sun
in the circle of sand.
Welcome life's last reward;
death in its purity.
Face greed,
face lust,
face hate,
pull the sword
from the bull.
Your true target
fills the stands
with its gluttony
to see you die.
Stand in the sun.
Invite them
to your side.
The fat men
won't join you there.
Fear fills their mouths
with bile.
They choke
on tiny bones
of gratitude
scattered at their feet
by the hungry,
by the poor
in supplication and fear.
Young trees
bend in the wind
of greed.
Help us!
Help us!
Help us!
they cry,
while above hungry heads
gold-ringed fingers wave
meaningless benedictions,
dismiss cries
with satiated smiles,
bloated mumbled platitudes
relate to nothing,
understood only by
death waiting
in the afternoon
sun.
Walk into the circle
where all can see.
Embrace the bull.
Kiss the flesh.
Raise your eyes
above the stands
to truth.
Open your heart
to all.
Stand in the light.
David (Re)commended
Visit David's Den for more of his essays, poetry, short stories.
~ David Coyote ~
Copyright 2002
March 9, 1993
A free form poetic saga dedicated to the World Bank.
against images of death.
Wash away ideas.
Rinse away dreams.
Muddy all rivers of hope.
Arms around the neck of the bull,
lips pressed against black flesh,
blade in hand
seek the heart
of the beast,
horns reach out,
blood gushes from mouth,
sand stains with ineptitude,
the crowd screams.
Death!
Death!
Death!
Blinding heat,
the sun.
Leave
walls of fear,
walls of pride,
walls of protection.
Walk into the circle
where all can see
savage horns
cut scythe-like.
Open my heart.
Spill my life
for the thirst of all,
each breath closer
to the last.
They cheer
the beast.
Nostrils distended,
tongue hangs,
head shakes;
suit of lights splits
on terrible horns
tastes pending
death.
Blood of envy,
blood of pretense,
blood of children
not born;
wait in the sun,
wait for heroes,
wait for life
to lift their hopes
above the mean greed of business;
of men in silk suits,
fat men in expensive cars,
innocent flesh trembles,
clothed in unmentionable
erotic dreams
to satisfy
the insatiable.
Blood flowing.
Blood flowing.
Blood flowing.
Currency.
Fat pocket-rolls
stolen from the poor,
teases the envious,
tempts the weak,
taunts the pure,
dirty fingers
lift morsels
to vulgar lips,
suck the flavor,
savor from life.
Blood red wine
runs in obscene
rivulets from chins,
dribbles down shirt-fronts
stretched across gluttony.
Choruses of mechanical
warplane laughter falls
from the skies
in smoke filled rooms,
eyes blinded by indifference.
Breath of innocents
fall silent in the face
of such greed.
Not one scream
can be heard
above the chainsaw.
It takes the last tree.
Not one sob
heard above the sounds
when the cash register
rings up
the last sale.
Not one tear
heard falling
to unloved earth
when boots come,
when guns speak,
when old generals
order youth to death
on rotting
fantasies of
power.
Kiss the bull.
Tear open your heart.
Embrace the sun
in the circle of sand.
Welcome life's last reward;
death in its purity.
Face greed,
face lust,
face hate,
pull the sword
from the bull.
Your true target
fills the stands
with its gluttony
to see you die.
Stand in the sun.
Invite them
to your side.
The fat men
won't join you there.
Fear fills their mouths
with bile.
They choke
on tiny bones
of gratitude
scattered at their feet
by the hungry,
by the poor
in supplication and fear.
Young trees
bend in the wind
of greed.
Help us!
Help us!
Help us!
they cry,
while above hungry heads
gold-ringed fingers wave
meaningless benedictions,
dismiss cries
with satiated smiles,
bloated mumbled platitudes
relate to nothing,
understood only by
death waiting
in the afternoon
sun.
Walk into the circle
where all can see.
Embrace the bull.
Kiss the flesh.
Raise your eyes
above the stands
to truth.
Open your heart
to all.
Stand in the light.
Visit David's Den for more of his essays, poetry, short stories.
~ David Coyote ~
Copyright 2002
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