wanderlust.

 

This poem starts with 3 disclaimers

        And an exclamation

1. In my short adult life, I have watched too many genocides play out at a distance to be able to tell the difference between near…and far…anymore

2. I know that the plural term for genocide is genocides, because I keep having to use it in sentences. This genocide. Those genocides. Our genocides. Your genocide.

3. I am not Arab, or Syrian, Or Lebanese, Or Tutsi Or Uyghur,Or Yazidi,Or Darfuri, Or Bosnian, Or Kurdish, Or East Timorese, Or Jewish, Or palestininian or Rohingya. I was not Sri Lankan enough to be there when my people’s own, bespoke, genocide happened, and ended. This poem is a reflection, a catharsis, an apotheosis of avarice,malice and vitriol from a bit too comfortable Subang kid who can’t look away anymore

And now an exclamation;   

Let this poem radicalise you.

They say there is no place

for anger here

That anger will smear

The line drawn in the sand

Jeapordize 

A Precarious situation

Like its so simple

Like we’re paying jenga

They speak like our anger

Is fire-wild and savage

But our anger is swords 

Scalpels

Razor sharp claws

A needle tipped storm

Darkening their horizon

Leave your anger at home

They say

Leave your red-eyed,

Tightly-clenched,

Fully-loaded

Sharpened

Honed,

Six shooter,

Earth shaking

Bass boosted

Too Loud

TOO BIG

TOO PAINFUL TO HOLD

TOO BRIGHT TO BEHOLD

RAGE 

At home

They say

Like it is baggage

That wont fit

in the overhead compartment

Then I say

       What is your anger for?

               Why does it exist

What are you cultivating

In your inner garden?

Why have you

bled into it’s earth

watering

an orchard of words

like missile silos?

To blindly praise the sun?

                  To shield grazing sheep?

                          Personality To sleep?

in their sheathes?

Till you sleep?

in the dirt?

next to them

Why lead an observed life

If you can’t observe the pain

They’re trying to erase? 

What is your anger for

If not to explode

A mushroom cloud beacon

Shining bright

For those who

have been exploding

for seventy five years

SEVENTY FIVE YEARS

That is a number that doesn’t make

Sense

Pain shouldn't have a lifespan 

Longer than the people

Who birthed it

There is no sense

I am looking between each lie 

And in shell shocked eyes

For the sense 

there is no sense

In this genocide

Those genocides

Our genocides

Their genocides

Your genocide

We live in a shared illusion

That this world

Is fair, and just

In exchange for the illusion

of peace

We surrender the right

To Truth

In exchange

For peace

We have let a cancer 

grow in our chest

So

What is your anger for

If not for this.

If not to cut out the cancer

If not for the light of truth

So let this poem radicalise you.

As I have it’s writing radicalise me

Let nothing stop the swing 

Of your sword arm

Wielding your barbed tongues

Honed to a fine edge

CUT THEM

Cut them deeply

Make them bleed 

their own blood

Instead of the 

blood of the weak

Let them know 

Its colour

Let them know

It's the color of fear

CUT THEM

Cut deep enough 

To see what they are

To show them what they are

creatures of fear

Playing at dress-up evil

Creatures of greed

Cosplaying power

Small things

Aping divinity

Painting over

Righteous fury

With the colors of hate

CUT THEM

So they know  their skin

Is soft  and brittle 

Like bible paper

Rip every lie

Out of its cover

And lay it bare

Bear down on it 

With the fire

Burning from your palms

Held outstretched

Dig your toes

Into the sand

And shine

I hope

That when the last 

torch bearing hand falls

Yours, and mine

Will be there to grab it

Before it’s quenched 

In bloodied mud

I hope

In the midst 

Of the avalanche

Of genocides

Of smallness

And fear

That you reach

for anger

Before you reach

for despair

It will take all of us

And everything of us

But it will be worth it

So let this 

Moment

Radicalise you