The Usual?
It tastes of vengeance, genocide, grim settlers, theft and suicide and no good heard. The IDF and Hamas spar, while young men check out M16s, semtex, tanks—become marines, or case a bar. In shopping malls and foetid slums, in the smouldering hubris of machines and piles of limbless dead preteens, the mind succumbs. The endless rounds and counterrounds are counterstriked; the countermands are counterfeit, so the contraband of hate abounds. Palestine could be a word for laban glass and latke plate, to grieve the dead, abandon hate so good is heard. Nigel Holt |
If you have any comments on this poem, Nigel Holt would be
pleased to hear them.
