Genocide Wallpaper

Genocide Wallpaper

The decorations on my bedroom wall
Come free for nothing.
Nights, I sit and watch
Chasms circulating on the bedroom wall,
Abysms of despair where outcast shadows,
Intricate in silent dissolution,
Morph to perverted forms as they endure
All that Hell can provide them with.
You see
Villages
Go gibbering into flames.
Devils on horseback kill,
Then rape
That which they cannot be bothered to destroy.
You see all this, and see
Much more in a similar vein.
Taken stone cold sober,
It's not quite nice.
A little liquor later, though.
You get to like it.
An acquired taste, I'd say.
Wallpaper being what it is,
It's purely visual.
No hissing gas
In this muted show with the sound turned down to zero.
Charcoal, accumulating,
Adds no odor,
And is not added
To my personal portion
Of the carbon debt.
Free stuff ... well,
You get what you pay for.
And, at moments,
Even though it's free you play a price.
A girl's eyes bulge,
A grandmother's teeth
Totter down her face in bloody splinters,
And you,
By accident, of course,
Connect.
There are moments when you would prefer,
If granted choice,
Capri, Hawaii, Halifax or Cape Cod.
But all that elite costs money.
Genocide comes free,
Soft bodies a pillow for your dreams.
And if within those dreams of yours
You see the eyeless dead,
They, in turn, see you,
And know you do not grant them help
Or intercession.
They, where they reside,
Endure what they must endure,
And suffer
Fully aware that you permit their fate.
But do not worry.
They, in a place where they cannot consult with counsel,
Cannot, in practice, make demands on you.
And you, for your part,
Should not assist
The demands their desperation would insist.
Do not pity the dead.
What is done is done.
Mithering about it
Will not improve your cash flow.
Remember
That you have no moral mission
To rectify the pictures on the wall.
Your spiritual obligation on planet Earth,
Your ethical imperative in a world of war,
Terror,
Suicide bombers,
Incarceration camps,
Mugabe famines,
And the Genocide Olympics,
Your angel purpose
Is the beach.
Use sunblock,
Wear a hat,
Drink plenty of water,
And do not perve at women not your wife.
Enjoy
The heat,
The watermelon sun.
Embrace
The challenge of the two-meter surf,
The pounding triumph of the ocean.
Limbo
Needs no looking after.
Hell
Will take care of itself.
Abandon the wallpaper
And accept
This revelation:
The achieved beach,
The perfect setting
For another perfect day.