Bodhi (zenbodhi) wrote,

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The Lash.

The Lash

Leather creaks
Like nails on a chalkboard
It assaults the senses
Rails against the mind's reason and sanity
The fate of those who have felt its kiss
Have been cleaved to the bone
Have been stung by the whip
The machinations of the whip are just as cruel
As the machinations of the man holding the handle.

Work harder!
Move faster!
Grow up!
Settle down!
Each tongue feeds a fire
That burns the skin
Pulls flesh away from flesh
Exposes bone
Strips away identity
Like it strips away flesh
Eager for every drop of blood
Not just to taste
But to be seen spilt upon the ground
A carpet of roses
Flat and fluid
Seeping into the very bones of the earth
Lapped up by hungry weeds.

There is no protection from the lash.

Skin-tight jeans
Camisoles that reveal more than they conceal
The tang of music
From the latest sex icon
To the next American Idol
All false
All seeking
All eager for your blood
Just as they are eager for your money
They remove your identity
Just to slip their alabaster mask onto your face
Moldy on the inside
Molded on the outside
You become a clone
Identical lines mark your back
Identical posture marks your manner
You even speak the same
The lash has worn you down to the bone

A stroke for every year of your life
A stroke for every wasted dream
For every stolen opportunity
For each and every relinquished value
They weren't strong enough
Not really
Not to begin with
They only got weaker
The lash stripped away strength
The ability to be anything more than a slave
A slave to fashion
A slave to sex
A slave to self-indulgence
To the concept of entitlement
To the concept of a handout
To the concept of a free ride

There's no real identity in the one who wields the lash
Like a poisonous viper
Malevolent eyes glinting
And thirsting for your soul
Many hold the lash in turn
Many caress its worn leather
Caress the woven spine
That will take its turn upon the back of another
They eagerly crack the whip in anticipation
Sadism broadcast in the eyes
Marketed to the masses
Windows to the soul of a consumer whore
A shadow of a person that could have been
Eager to create offspring
Or steal children from the hated xenophobic friends
The lash is ready to taste of you.

Curled and held aloft
It is waved through the air like a banner
A beacon of war
Upon humanity
One stroke, one year.


No one ever lasts until midnight
And the sobbing is muted by the smile.
Tags: poetry
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