The Scout

Watching comrades die,

Their cut bodies in his eye,

Their dying screams in his brain,

He rambles forth in pain.

His legs are cut,

Crawling in the dust,

His arms are bleeding,

News are his friends needing.

Rambling on with deathly sickness

His mind a home to dreamy visions,

Pain loses significance,

As things around him begin to dance,

Yet with a unreal drive,

To reach home does he strive.

Fierce loyalty pushes him on,

Teeth gritted with determination,

Thoughts of his folk,

Act as the final brushstroke,

On a masterpiece,

And give him peace.

He does this without his self in mind,

Earlier, and with ease, could he have died,

But he held on,

He pushed forth,

For you and me,

For his folk,

For his kin,

His sanity balanced on a pin,

Did he persevere.

The Scout is a legend.

hypocrisy

The world is round

When a man claimed so,

He was burnt.

The sky is blue,

When a man claimed so,

Was he burnt?

Discrimination they say

Is abolished.

Gender bias is taboo.

Your skin is not

The colour of your soul.

So these hypocrites claim.

Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Paedophiles.

Drug pushers.

Society marks them with

A brand of disgust.

Calling them outcasts,

And unworthy.

Yet they allow these,

These hypocrites to

Laugh and drink

Make merry and love

The honest are branded

With contempt and vulgarity

By the same

Who toast to the hypocrites.

As Dylan said once.

“it makes me feel ashamed

to live in a land

where justice is a game.”

Modified,

It makes me feel ashamed

To live in a world

Where bias rules over truth.

rulers

Bejewelled chair that he sat on

Served as his kingly throne

He sat with elbow on knee

And head on elbow

Eyes fast shutting

He begins to drift

Into the Dreamland

Then he hears a story

About abuse and suffering

A subject voices a problem

Concerning death and decay

Rape and murder

Emboldened by these calamities

The man wakes up

He sees this an opportunity

To use his power

The power that he was born to use

The power that is above all

The power that needs no justification

That’s the power he was taught to use

Not subtle reasoning with his Lessers

Not sympathy and mercy

Not caring

Is this a king?

bullfight

I couldn’t see ahead. All I could see was the rump of a bull. A big black rump, shaking with uncontrollable primal fear. I wasn’t allowed to see anything else. My senses were divided, very acute and completely numb. I couldn’t feel around me; my legs were chained, my stomach had been growling for so long that I had lost feeling of it. I couldn’t see, except for the rump of the bull in front. But I could hear, and I could smell. Very well. Too well. I could hear the snorts from the bulls, the fearful short snorts, punctuated by heavy breathing. I could hear wild noises ahead. I could hear anger and fear. I could hear these things. I could hear hysteric and maniacal laughter. I could smell the sweat in the tunnel. I could smell the fear. It reeked like the strong odour of dead bodies. I could smell blood. I could smell fresh dung and strong fresh urine.

There was nothing inside me that prepared me for this medley of feelings that were reaching my brain. There was nothing that offered a solution or a way out. There was nothing that even offered any solace. And worst of all, there was nothing that told me what exactly lay beyond the rump of the bull in front of me.

Fear began to pump in my veins with a new vigour, and my body began to perspire and shake with a demonic frenzy. What is happening? What is out there? Why do I smell blood and fear? Why do I hear laughter? These thoughts culled through my remaining sanity with brutal ease. I began to thrash in my chains, and froth at the mouth. I bellowed wildly, knowing somehow that I was dead.

“We have enough as it is. This one is causing too much trouble. He won’t be of any use outside. Kill him.”

“But…”

“Kill him.”

TCHAK.