what does it mean to be water?
changing form. distilled. rising
to the skies, then falling again.
crashing into the embrace of your likeness
in form.
what does it mean to change form?
to feel your skin grow scales, to let
yourself stretch out under the earth
rhizoids clinging to you skin
what does it mean to eat, and be eaten?
how does it feel to know that the same blood that flows in your veins,
is now flowing through the tracts of worms
what does it mean, to crumble?
let your body decompose and mix with soil and let the rain wash it all away
what does it mean, to lose your form, all sense of self?
***
I saw Hitler at the Schengen office
Muttering to the officer poring over profiles
“Nein. Zu Braun.” Stamp.
Red Letters over the offending face
A white St. Peter at the gates nodding
“Nein. Schwarz!” Stamp.
Too many of them coming in these days
Shithole countries. Button and Nipple.
Not enough Nordics, not enough at all.
“Nein. Kommunist?” Stamp.
Illegal wreckers of order, burdening, ungrateful
Russian spies even
Even worse, rapefugees infiltrating
Using academic conferences
PhD positions, tourism, lectures?? LECTURES??
How can one of them lecture our people??
Bring our children to their abodes
South of Heaven, the Savage Lands
The Muslim and Slavic phenotypes
Across the bridge, horror and despotism
Away from the Eagle’s watchful gaze
His lethal (justified!!) talons ready
“Nein. Rassenhygiene, dummkopf!”
Stamp. The hopeful student burnt alive
His oversize genitals betraying his brain
The books unborn aborted with ink
The sterile chambers where immigrants huddle
Zyklon B replaced by mute disinfectant
The invasive weeds uprooted then cast in fire
The clinical calipers measuring each skull
The cameras and fingerprints and Quislings
The lists sent back to the Little Eichmanns
The stacks of papers that bear witness
That the suited candidate is close enough to Aryanhood
That he may be trusted to enter the Fourth Reich
And benefit the racial Lebensraum through his labour
I saw Hitler in the Schengen office, barely disguised
Peering at a profile very carefully through firm fingers
Skull measurements, racial statistics, bank statements
Whistling Ode to Joy as he flipped the blue marked sheaf
Musing his victory over all Europe with visible pride
“Ja. Ehrenarier”.
Stamp.
***
I often listen to the whispers of the wind.
Before,
it used to tell stories of monsters slain
and humourous tales of young boys and girls;
it used to bring gifts from far, like a relative,
after eons past, visiting home.
Lately,
I hear only news of ill fortune.
Maybe I, as a kid, heard things differently
Or maybe,
the world has grown sadder and the people with it.
As it flows murmuring to itself,
its movement heavy like the feet
of a grief stricken common man,
I try to wave at it, a common flag.
It doesn't catch it's attention.
Some days the whispers sound like cries for help.
I feel like helping.
I feel like holding my breath, lest my lungs should take
more from it— more than it can spare.
I fear
it will turn colder, sicker still
New ears will seldom hear
the whispers of the wind.