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by Clada Idem 2 months ago in surreal poetry
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By Clada

What do you pay more mind to; The material of the whip or whom you cast it on?

Could I breastfeed you some perspective to remedy your repugnance?

Or have you: since infancy, been guilty of your recognizance.

My women have burned to have their deepened skin fetishized.

My men have been tagged and stood on like trophies for their hides.

Our children face a different layer of appalling action. Their poisoned, beaten, and left shaking, covered in rust.

What makes my son a man and your son incompetent?

My children live in paper houses peeling back after water stains and vermin ravaged all the cavities.

Adults so riddled with defeat their better off dead.

Skinhead, do you hate or need to be cradled while I sing to you rock a bye, baby.

Denying so much attention for being just in the right place at the right time, is that genuinely worth killing?

Your neighbors on the outskirts are tired of tasting lead. Every milestone is another gross retaliation.

Over killed and exaggerated when the truth isn’t news to anyone.

Better me than you, right? Better further and far away. There’s no place for that talk in the civilized world.

No self-respecting civilization.

surreal poetry

About the author

Clada Idem

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