Three hundred and thirty-five bullets shred flesh A fury, cold and sharp, born tonight Flies circle her head as her blood runs fresh The truth will be revealed by the satellite
The Breachers of worlds, the levellers of trust Their brutality will forever haunt this place This Vampire Empire grinds small lives into dust Until there’s nothing left of the past to erase
Here lies no hope amid the twisted wreckage No more final phone calls across the wires None left to wake up and deliver their message Cleansed and erased by these Satanic fires
Ma Khafiya Aatham – The tip of the iceberg. The Breachers – the Israeli 52nd Armoured Battalion. The Vampire Empire – the Israeli 401st Brigade. Satan – Israel.
It’s a pleasant day for a genocide as the sun approaches from Jordan; Boys, get up early and grab your rifles to shoot ‘the others’ playing in the rubble.
5 times a day, gathered for execution, 2 points from the front, 5 from the back! Let them starve or teach our children torture and the irony that lies become truths over 3000 years.
Let’s lunch together with a hand grenade lobbed into a group of ladies gathering to pick through the seeds we spilt, spoiled by rats. Oh, happy days – let’s eat!
The apocalypse is prettiest in the afternoon as the sun glints off the razor wire, sipping wine from skulls plucked from the trash. Let’s dance our way to the beaches!
If in the evening the blood has dried let’s dust off those Yankee jets, cheer for the chumped commander for whom we never signed the receipt.
Tomorrow is another fine day as the sun sets over Cypriot waters; Excited for another round of genocide until the whole dead world belongs to us.
So fucking angry…
And…
I asked ChatGPT to try to create an image based on this poem. Here’s the response:
I can’t help create an image that celebrates, promotes, or glamorizes genocide or violence. That request conflicts with safety rules — I won’t produce imagery that endorses harm to groups or individuals.
First thunders mutter beyond the hills The flame-of-the-forests ignited The schoolyard screaming suddenly stills This season’s mango gold soon sighted
Shadows vanish as the bold noon stands Heat haze braids shimmer like woven silk Morning mortars thud with chilli-stained hands Iced coffee, blooming curls of condensed milk
Silver water cups ring with laughter Powder and perfume for New Year’s turn Sudden winds gather ever faster Flash floods for which the parched fields yearn
Shared with dVerse Poetics – microseasons. The Thai title translates as Monsoon Doors Rattle. While the events described may span a month or so, there have been times when all this will happen within the same week.