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Poem by José Eduardo Coelho (written after reading "The Seventh Gate"
15-06-2016

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 


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