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HEAD-LINES - THURSDAY (3/12/09)


Downturn trims list of billionaires
What remains for us to sing about when we’re alone? We’ve been left a tall rocking horse on the arid shores whose face is stopped in horror, fierce eyes, pale mane, and a faded mouth filled with graying, wicked teeth. It cannot be enough.

 Teenage gunman kills 15 in German school attack
One can sense the pallid bend of eternity as it tumbles headlong off the peak.

(Have we been here before with an equally strange and untamed coldness?)

Surely our minds will strike a chord and summon our better selves? Without doubt. Yes? ...Without a...

 Israel Stance Was Undoing of Nominee for Intelligence Post
The land remains, the waves bite the shore with thunder like shrill whores pacing outside a fortified gate in a land gone mad of money, torture, war and death, a constant noise percolates in the greed-murdered flesh.

 Scattered Droplets of Inspiration.
Build the machinery that shall deliver us from here.

It’s not our job to rescue homes or clean our shores. It’s not our place to feed all the howling little horrors. It’s not our task to clothe the naked or help the poor. It’s not our responsibility to care for the droning horde.
Build the machinery that shall deliver us from here.

© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman


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