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Literature Text
My grandfather, a man with a bullet hole prison in the shape of an air tank. The skin on his wounds pulled back and the humanity extracted. He mumbled, with his feeble cheeks, with the identifiable swagger of a victim. I asked him what kind of ghost he was, he said he was a memory.
But where is he now, with his emphysema and his scars? The peach kisses of a German engineered machine gun... that fuzzy symmetry traced his breast, and down his leg. Was he the man who vomited at Birkenau? Stood like Rodin before the masterpiece of catastrophe. Did he let their frail outlines embrace the mere confines of human suffering?
He said he dreamed. I knew, at night I could hear the old scream of tar lung... a scream deficient in oxygen, what a scream would be years after the echo had passed through his lungs. The prostitution of pain, the explosive agony that could not fit all at once into his mouth.
(Let not the knowledge of destruction disenfranchise your soul, but depart into mourning for human indifference)
They say old age killed my grandfather, but it was the mortar shell in his heart. At his funeral I saw a man with a worn number stitched into his arm, he called it heritage and the sun was fed steadily into his chest.
But where is he now, with his emphysema and his scars? The peach kisses of a German engineered machine gun... that fuzzy symmetry traced his breast, and down his leg. Was he the man who vomited at Birkenau? Stood like Rodin before the masterpiece of catastrophe. Did he let their frail outlines embrace the mere confines of human suffering?
He said he dreamed. I knew, at night I could hear the old scream of tar lung... a scream deficient in oxygen, what a scream would be years after the echo had passed through his lungs. The prostitution of pain, the explosive agony that could not fit all at once into his mouth.
(Let not the knowledge of destruction disenfranchise your soul, but depart into mourning for human indifference)
They say old age killed my grandfather, but it was the mortar shell in his heart. At his funeral I saw a man with a worn number stitched into his arm, he called it heritage and the sun was fed steadily into his chest.
Sometimes, I get the impression the soul is a parade of life against my will.
The floats are doubt that line the street, the metal wire demonstration of a wish wrapped in confetti, weightless enough to be concealed in the rafters of an attic filled with world war two memorabilia.
The floats are doubt that line the street, the metal wire demonstration of a wish wrapped in confetti, weightless enough to be concealed in the rafters of an attic filled with world war two memorabilia.
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he called it heritage and the sun was fed steadily into his chest.
chilling.
chilling.