A Trivial Pogrom

A Trivial Pogrom

At a steady pace, frescoes

fell, inscriptions were scratched

leaving a naked

dome, staring, cold

into a night of

crystals;

her words - a dead silent

hiding spring within syllables-

caged angels

for as long as heaven's

broken fantasy

dwelt in

hell

and he

became meaningless

consuming what was left unburnt -

landscapes of human transition

seraphic jewelry hanging

from fruitless trees

tongues mouthing no more about

breasts

but machine guns

teasing

fucking

filtering improper, filthy scummy sand

from skewed

mouths

(

what is the color of red? When red

is all

you see?

)

Years later

we will ask, How was it possible?

They will and we

will!

and thus it is written.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho