a poem by Manu Mahajan

Ghosts are making merry,
muscled men of clay
waltz in the cemetery, sins of yesterday
sinking in the quagmire
senses nipped in the bud
too much wood, no burning pyre
all flesh and no blood

nomads in search of life
prints in the sand
freedom took them by surprise
they’ve all read Kant
at the point of a knife
All gallant
but not with their wives

Messengers of mercy really
gods of despair
Priests mercenary
crusaders everywhere
descendants of royalty
vampires in the night
vultures picking eyes again
to camouflage their plight

A maniacs myopia
headlines in the news
page five is for ethiopia
the poor have different queues
degenerated utopia
bend all the rules
whoever uses morphia
for medicinal use

Flying flags
while the city’s gripped in vice
here comes the man
and his sons will pay the price
clean cut lads
it’s a very thin disguise
they’ve got packed stands
but they’re skating on thin ice.

That’s too bad
But the pay is all right
scratch my back
and I’ll gouge out your eyes
tortured land
yet even gods must die
take my hand
and leave it all behind.