(Yo)u said (it)
An imprecation for an agency
The smell of cheap beer and lubricant,
the stinking-sweet pall of poppies,
laughter, low, hoarse, higher forced,
descending into muffled tears and screams;
the sound of ping-pong balls on neon-lit bars
and filthier baht passing palm to palm,
a continent away and a generation pastβ
all buried under your whited sepulchres.
Mama Quillaβs girls, thirty myriad wombs
shut up, sealed, made to mourn sons
never conceived except in the night
terrors of that Kyushu yakuza in Lima.
Or swarthy Montevideo vagrantsβ tears,
electrodes taped to their scrotums,
made to drink their own urine
while yanquis in their black suits smile.
I do not forgive them, Father! Not one!
They say they know not what they do,
but they know! They know, and pretend
with their heaps of words atop more words
that their own idols are blameless.
They weep for heaps of stones, because
they know that buried under them
is the stink of rotting human carrion.
Tear all of them down, Lord! Tear us down!
Make us to see the filth we spew as piety!
Make every one of us drench his face
in a deluge of tears, if we had any shame!
Drown this world in them, for our minds
on gain and exploitation bend with constancy.
Heap more evils, Lord, upon the βgoodβ
whose βaidβ and βmercyβ cries out from the field.
