Take my eyes,
these open wounds,
these schisms of desire.
They are not all they appear to be.
Take a scalpel to this mindset,
in this night and in this fog,
read my lips.
this common grave
into this open ditch,
into my gaping mouth.
Scream with me
in my nightmares.
The position of my hands
tells you whether I was alive or not,
when I was in the grave.
Everyone got the coup de grace of course;
a bullet in the back of the head.
I was young, the other old.
We were hugging each other
in the gardens of
and our voices are not silenced yet.
copyrighted .This poem is taken from my second collection Siempre Siempre Siempre
Palores Publications March 2008 ISBN 978-0-9556682-5-8 £5.99
and also first appeared in Aesthetica Feb/March 2008 Issue 21.