Lice (The 10 Plagues Pt. II)

Watch the sun finish its affair
Against a landscape of two-legged ants and concrete towers
And an economy in a wheelchair.
Be aware of the pavements and alleys you pass through
What grunts and groans and laughs and fuckyous
For they paint the details we care to overlook
For the crap we whine about and the chocolate gold we treasure.
In a backdrop of vulnerable balance between host and parasite
Who is the scalp and who are the lice?
The aged beggars with their jiggling cans and outstretched hands and open palms
You ask where their families are and they shrug with both strength and despair then indifference
Who do they owe and who owes them, what do you do and why this happens
This isn’t new, this is fate and the faithful will insist that it’s god’s plan for them
Bullshit, mercy does not equal pity and pathetic bystander apathy
Nor does it help to say a prayer and offer verbal sympathy.
Look at their eyes, pleading street urchins and dirty little boys
Like poodles waiting for masters to give them peso chew-toys
Then measure the weight of the resident obese cockroaches, stable
Scurrying along with the flipflops and bare feet of them frail enfant terribles.
This isn’t new, this is everyday, this is the sandbox and the playground
Swings and seesaws and slides and Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds.
So you give them a coin with Rizal’s head on it that will not buy hunger medicine
Then you curse and cuss they won’t use them for taksi and rugby sniffs.
So you go and give the seemingly less fortunate a job, blue-collar and servicemen and butlers and majordomas
And thank the gods you were born in comfort and ease and swag and cash and yayas.
Bourgeoisie, nouveau riche, old money, oligarchs, officials and stars
You sigh and heave money at badass charities but never at your local park
Climbing castes, social climbing primate, crab mindset, admit the rich need the poor
Then you get all teary-eyed and say ahay when you read this morning’s editorial and news —

 

Well.
Watch the sun start its affair
Against a landscape of two-legged bees and concrete towers
And an economy in a wheelchair.
It’s hot and they itch and itch and itch
You tear and scratch and tear and scratch until it makes you a witch
To remind, isn’t this just your good old run-of-the-mill symbiosis?
Then go find your backbone, prince.
Because they are like the clownfish that prey on invertebrates
And this is not about he who has branches nor he who has never seen a bank —

 

 

What is luck but a one-night-stand?

 

 

Vivien Marie Lopez

(c) 2012

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The Death of the Firstborn (The 10 Plagues Pt. I)

Father. Bless my tears.
I am the sacrifice for your sins.
Should it save you or damn you
Let my life be a lesson in truth
That my innocence in death be your comfort
For I haven’t seen the world yet and its gamble of sorts.
I am a child and this is a short voyage
But which would you choose: blissful ignorance or the hard wisdom of age?
You have your years and the rest of them
More pain and blood and monsters and mayhem
And I will toast with the Lost Boys and Peter Pan
Free for endless dreams and eternally young
Let me sleep with the faeries
And stay with your bedtime stories.
And yes I am your lost heir
And a younger blood will catch my aborted wear and tear
But I am a child and let me be selfish
Father, follow your principles and don’t be caught with grief
For these men once gratified will ruin your empire and our ways
An exodus they say? Behold the way their god betrays
For their god is jealous and insecure and selectively favors
And what do they know about our own deities and prayers?
To be punished by someone else’s supreme architect
For want for power and dominance instead
Father, this is not your war.
This is between the cosmos and the stars.
And who are we but pawns for a more interesting history
For future children to read and know and be fed with folly.
But perhaps this is only fate and not some bullshit theist wet dream
Perhaps, Father, this is the extent of the stretch of my mortality.
But if we were all proven to be wrong, listen well.
Decide for the men we think we were, for what we stand for to our children.
Father, perhaps you can set them free as you will with me.
After all, kings live to make a name for mankind and for a colorful history
Like the ways of these gods, ours and theirs –
And we all are their lost heirs.

Vivien Marie Lopez
© 2012
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