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in Dylan’s shadow

il miglior fabbro x

the ghost of Hamlet drives his Cadillac
from Denmark to Dallas
 
ghost foot stepping heavy on the gas
passing decades of decadence
fanned by fallen slaves with hollow faces
skeletons risen from their shallow graves.
 
watchmen cast their eyes
on dice and dominoes,
blind to murderous deeds
passing men begging on their knees
   whispering bloody words from chapped
chained lips
 
scoffs drowning pleads of 'don’t shoot,
I’ve got kids to feed.’
 
Abraham walked down highway sixty-one
back to the sacrificial altar
carrying his rabid dog,
a bow, fifteen arrows and two pistols
in holsters -
                best friend blown, shot in the head
splattered brains and bones spread on the rocks
                           sat drinking the blood
mixed with a double shot
to ease the swollen sense of shock.
 
Antonio is going home,
assets seized
though the loan remains unpaid
       walking the narrow
thorny road
his poems couldn’t pay the bills
and pelicans sit
beaks wide and hungry
seeking holy loaves and fish to feed
   they watch a king pass
walking on water
as hunters and fishermen shoot
at the easy flocks of prey
          ready for bullets to spray
while clowns play
splashing in the shallows,
          they better pray to their gods now
for the day of reckoning shall be known.
 
blood floats on the water
under the purple painted sky
eyes shut
    blurry from crying
all through the night,
 
             the resurrected king died a second time
now the hackers wipe his memory
      smirking Moloch’s stinking grin
chicken grease drips from sharpened teeth
running down their chins
onto crisp white shirts
under petticoats stained with sin.
 
golden chalices and plastic cups
      lifted in cheers
toasting on the cusp of greatness
party anthems sung in jest
as the prophet waved goodbye
                                     falling spread,
        punctured neck and chest
eyes shut
           he lay shot dead.
 
Sisyphus fell back to the foot of a hill
rolling his stones
with a mountain to climb
asking for a lift,
   the driver shook his head
saying dimes are no way to pay in this rat race
and road-blocks
have closed the one-way that lay ahead
 
the impending street parade
with waving banners of death
flapping in the wind
  limousines turn into hearses
as the speechless crowd stand breathless
wondering in silence
                              who’s next....

Other works by Rob Bruwer...



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