KLEPTO: Book Five

 

KLEPTO

 

 

Collected Poems

Book Five

 

 

Heather Sawaya

c.2015

 

 

 

For the artists, whistleblowers, activists, humanitarians and rebels who fight those who steal our freedoms, our limited time on earth, and who attempt to enslave, oppress and torture humanity.

 

 

This book was published on World Refugee Day,

June 20th, 2016.

 

All of the author’s royalties will be donated to organizations dedicated to ending violence, torture, and oppression.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disintegration of the Self

 

Nothing good

can come of it.

They appeal that

somehow,

one becomes

stronger

for all one has

had to endure,

as if,

in the end,

it was all worth it,

becoming broken.

Fly me out on

deathbed wings.

 

 

The Darker Side of Light

 

There is a box.

Within the box

is a storm.

 

My ears ring

to the sound

of penance.

 

They sent me off

with the lunatics

and bringers

of death.

 

Back into

my mother’s womb,

I lit the flame

of hope.

 

To make sense

of the unfathomable-

constellations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ultra Sadists

 

Nightmare bringers

force feed me

my latest penance.

 

They are

the rapists who complain

about lack of lubrication,

women-haters,

especially empowered,

outspoken women.

They resent having to

ask our permission,

get our consent.

 

There are still people

who believe women have

rape fantasies.

Some claim women

who speak of being abused

as crazy, manipulative masochists.

Some call victims of sex trafficking

prostitutes.

 

Then I fell asleep

and remember everything

except the most

important parts.

 

Even the victims who have,

so-called,

“complied”,

may have been coerced, blackmailed,

extorted, threatened, tyrannized.

 

We who oppose

have our eyes burned out.

 

Of course,

none of this is literal,

it is just a poem about the

abuse,

torture,

selling,

exploiting,

enslaving,

trafficking

of human beings.

 

It feels so good

that I rage and vomit.

 

 

 

The Effects of Torture

 

Spun three-sixty,

the plane never touched down.

Come join the stampede

and see if you can resist

these injuries.

 

Beneath gilded threats,

I am a

people-pleaser.

I think leverage

I don’t mean.

I lust

vintage hypothetical.

 

I see beauty everywhere.

It makes me sick.

Poveglia

 

She was

an ill little birdie.

 

Her innards

within their beaks,

a feast

gouging out

her clitoris.

.

The liar masturbates

underwater tears

under the covers.

A beast keeps count.

 

By now,

they could read

her thoughts and see through

walls,

showering,

undressing,

gagging

on the scent of

her own excrement.

 

Every second

of every day,

‘die

as slowly or

as quickly

as you’d like,’

 

they told her

wordlessly.

 

Preclude

 

Revenge mongers

encroach a crass,

irrevocable relapse.

 

Slip up and

you’re sold.

 

Manufacture your freedom

but mind to

hallucinate

freedom

from here on out.

(A new way of

doing business 😉

 

These drug dealers,

these gang stalkers

prostituting truth

in the name of an

omnipotence

I don’t even believe in.

 

I will not reciprocate

your hearse

even though

I obsess the parallel,

wear it like a

dishonorable skein,

a videocassette echo stalking

your judgement day.

 

I gleam,

deadened

more than ever before.

The Beast

 

Only when we become

as hateful and as violent as

our torturers,

will they have succeeded.

Crime

does not justify torture.

Ideologies

do not justify torture.

Many play the role

of decency

flawlessly,

but given an opportunity,

if torment and bullying are

twisted socially acceptable,

the facade is dropped

and a barely contained

seething savagery

swarms.

In the face of cruelty and

absence of concern,

an ego-less act of humanity

is required.

Why would toxins be fed

to an already sick person?

It would only make them

more sick.

Compassion and empathy,

an attempt to understand

rather than to judge

is much more difficult,

yet, is

the anecdote.

Action must not be taken

from one’s suffering

or one’s ego.

Revenge and violence

only continue

the enemy’s war.

Spread the word,

not the war.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prey

 

Hunted

for the crumbs

on the floor.

My house

is on fire.

 

Integrity

is nothing

to death.

 

You,

immaculate,

dreaming churches

in every blood stain.

 

Ever

would you

understand

only when

surrounded by the

bleak rebirths

of your confessors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parking Lot Prayers

 

Mock priests and cops

ran the Zimbardo experiments

the past three years

and all she kept on about was

angels of retribution and

if I know then I am involved, right?

And nobody knew what she was saying,

they never did.

Her long lost-love were a DJ

and hooded shadows keeping

the corner block

toasty warm.

 

They sold her

like heroin.

 

Traffic stopped in both directions,

 

stalked her brokenness to

every dwelling,

every job,

with every man

she departed the world for

to heal the synaptic voids

of derisive laughter

and antipsychotics.

 

She was dying

and insane

more for others

than she ever was

for herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Witness

 

I had this idea for

anarchist journalism,

a documentary confronting

pimps guarding Motel 6 balconies,

homeless addicts,

who, even from a distance,

see God

in their hardened veins

like stars reflecting the piss-soaked

rat infested alleys of

this supposedly

chosen suicide.

 

In the hope of arriving

long before

the merchants

and vermin,

I follow my dying

refusal to be silent

down the shores

of escapist waters

where the dead

dredge and release

broken, stolen humanity

into the frigid winged universe

of all who suffer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between Worlds

 

I was born/ an artistic soul/ I probably feel more/ than you ever could/ you want everything/ just right/ have no room for/hypotheses leading nowhere./

They had us begging for our lives/ pin dolled/ hot electrical impulse pokers/ burning intermittent torture/ some developed dissociative disorders/ ingested pills/ lived the double life of denial/ some left/ to escape/ the invisible touch/ of enslavement./

It may have been/ a revolution/ a movement/ to bring humans back/ to their original sin/ back from the deadening purification/ of mind/ body/ soul/ megalomania/ who is your leader/ your false prophet/ I always wondered/ who laid the plans/ set the traps/ where is this devil/ playing God/ I obsessively sought/ the hunter/not the Shepard/ leading this flock./

Reality was constructed/ from the evaporating dew/ of anarchy/ we were raped and pillaged/ on one level or another/ in the name of a million moral crusades/ looted/ streaming riots/ live/ my beating heart/ only a calculation/ a mere statistic./

I feel more gathering/ like storms/ layered like dying flowers/ diaspora tides/ in a drop of water/ tempest winds/ in every exhale/ and I need it/ to feel something unguarded/ after feeling nothing/ elapsing/ agony/ creating worlds/ from a few words/ dying to feel something/ resembling life.

The Clear, White Tomb

 

Now that you have been/ silenced/ properly humbled/ a drooling/ rocking/ little weirdo/ thoroughly affected by our incessant drownings/ the innocence/ we killed out of you/ gives birth to dead babies/ all over your lily white apron/ shame, shame/ now, join us in the rose garden/ won’t you?/

They called themselves soldiers/ just in time for the public hanging/ a family event/ a lost soul/ so full of life/ such a talent/ she used to be/ the coppery-green/ in an abstract impressionist sky/ singeing the pages/ a gossamer vision of the Virgin/ channeling the subconscious/ strapped down/ a medical procedure/ they called it/ it was for the best/ they insisted/

They called themselves saints/ deliverers of retribution/ and justice/ really/ they were either criminals/corrupt public officials/ so-called seekers of social justice/ or simple minions/ hoping to exercise a newfound sense of power/ they had never been given/ an excuse to use violence/ to make their point/ orgasming a sadistic need to control/ to hurt others/ in ways they themselves had probably been hurt/

Always a swarming/ a crashing all around/ ritualistic/ in nature/ it was hilarious/ entertaining/ her strange reactions/ to things undetectable/ trying to seek refuge/ she was stalked/ to the clear, white tomb/ maniacal, bloody laughter/ severing/ a prismatic destiny/ from the universe’s/ fragmented womb/

 

Harm’s Way

 

They tore into the cities/ invading and occupying homes/ staked like territorial wounds/ to the mass graves/ of our ancestors/ limitless access/ the flames of power/ fueled by delusion/ Take whatever is left/ from the wood pile/ and burn it/ burn the rest/

A dangerous grief/ foreshadowed the ruins/ of a shackled war zone/ the potential of all that could be/ buried beneath/ hues of apathy and rubble/ Careful now/ with what is found/ the weather is about to turn/

I would have kept their secrets/ protected them as faithfully/ or as often/ as gold is stripped/ from an original mind/ They knew of/ possibly saw/ the abuse/ the exploitation/ all the blood/ yet silent/ for years possibly/

I was violated motherfuckers/ we all were/ The word/ no/ was never a part of the equation/ those who spoke out/ against the crimes/ were rumored to be insane/ as if insane/ was the worst thing to be/ loons/ some whispered/ some whispered it louder than others/ so we were never to be believed/

We are human beings/ goddamit/ people/ freely accessed/ stalked/ to the blackest rooms/ of our minds/ I remember counting the ridges/ on the cellar floor/ in and out of consciousness/ mockingbird incantations circling/ the barely audible/ fire/ of my dying mind/ Even in my most liberated wastelands/ there were never any questions/ to refuse/

 

Submarines

 

They surface prophetic/ supernatural lacerations/ surges/ imparting bridges/ to the next injury/or induced orgasm/ plagued/ like a frequency/ or wavelength/ like conventional bullets/ ravaging/ strong smelling menstrual blood/

The oppressed need to get angry

All of us are sick/ we are all addicts/ there is an albatross choking/ every single one of us/ and yet/ in our humiliated rage/ we broadcast/ whose is uglier/ whose is more mangled/ and killed/ but it does not/ vanish our own./

You condescend/ that you refuse to come/ to the rescue/ of your rescuer/

Outside myself/ I submerge/ to atone the dark metal/ the eruptions/ the delusional escapisms/ both above and/ below the surface/

We are dealing with/ very dangerous people/ who do not take no/ for an answer/

 

 

 

 

 

The Authorities

 

The entire city/ and beyond/ knew/ witnessed/ what went on/ behind those doors/ the glass house on fire/

He tried to kick her/ he grabbed her wrists/ shoved her/ they called it emotional abuse/ they knew of the crimes/ called her a liar/ then a whore/ they wore their badges like crowns/ he had a history of violence/ an alcoholic/ they said/ he just needed therapy/ she was a pervert/ then a child predator/ there was no cure for her/ a prostitute/ then crazy/ then paranoid/ delusional/ just fucking insane/

Supposed criminals/ made the streets safer/ than third-world 1984/ thought police/ they covered up the crimes/ the abuse/ the sexual assault/ with a blanket of silence/ they broke the bond/ between mother and child/ made an example of her publicly/ gas lighted/ crazy made/ as long as she looks/ like she’s nuts/ dangerous/ we will never be questioned/

These supposed heroes/ no wonder/ the entire country/ rioted/ protested their astounding hypocrisy/ beneath pink skies/ rage/ enough is enough/ a storm front/ about to pour/

They were military police/ who treated the citizens/ they were obligated to protect/ like enemies/ as if it was a war/ us versus them/ as if they had forgotten/ they were public servants / we / the people/ let’s play house/ you’re the / guard/ I’m the prisoner/ let’s see who snaps first/

Respect my authority/ or else.

 

A Proper Burial

 

It was told that/ those who disappeared in Mazatlán/ made their way across/ the Sierra Madres/ in the Mexico Basin/ where their pirate souls were restored/ by the salty sea/ of the Gulf/

Horse hooves clucked the rhythm of urgency/ as celebratory riots broke out/ in the streets of/ Old Havana/ once its residents were told/ their tyrannical dictator/ who kept his country in shambles/ for over two decades/ had died in his sleep/ He was chained to a cement block/ along with his blood money/ and lowered/ somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle/ It was coded in the very essence/ a celebration of death/ a rising smoke vengeance/ that may have even reached/ the shores of Panama into Columbia/

Thick, sweltering air saturated/ moist skin while supple lips/ reflected dewy/ reddish-gold midnight haze/ constrained by a/ peeling and chipped pastel building/ adorning arched windows that gleamed golden light/ upon cobblestone streets/ Voluptuous women smoldered/ beneath a faint/ orange glow in darkened doorways/ their brown eyes and hair leaving little to the eye/ and everything else to fantasy/ while tobacco smoke ruminated/ in shadowed corners/ where gasping silhouettes/ fell and rose/ like the fluidity/ of absolute motion/

Where food/ and basic human decency were scarce/ violent men/ and beautiful, broken women/ got rich off the dark weaknesses/ of upstanding citizens and tourists/ on the islands/From Puerto Rico to St. Croix/ Dominica to Barbados/ archangels chased the excesses/ of the West Indies/ to the confluence of the Caribbean Sea/ and the Atlantic/

Shipwrecks could be seen/ from tattered motels/ in Fort de France/ The authorities were a part of/ if not altogether responsible/ for the corruption/ as long as they were compensated/ in ways/ that were difficult to prove/ It was whispered/ that muffled screaming could be heard/ from the women/ whimpering all throughout/ the halls/ Most were stolen from their homelands/ and brought here/ to be sold/ to men with an/ especially sadistic streak/ Even the authorities/ who did not participate/ stood watch/ to guard/ to protect the women/ The local mental institution/ was the largest residence/ on the island/

It was always in paradise/ where waves sounded like Elysian Fields/ where the worst of humanity/ drowned/ in aquamarine/ and pirate’s gold/ so long as the myth/ was created from pathos/ so as it remained a mystery/ so long as the/ sane/ the artistic/ the healers/ the shamans/ the eccentrics/ were tortured/ were exiled/ were strange and ill/ so long as the free/ were enslaved/ could there be what is called/ paradise/ the mask of an/ unspeakable/ a hidden/ an unforgivable violence/ just below the surface/ there/ within each person/ the potential/ it exists/ there exist/ infinite excuses/ to qualify malice/ Human beings will trench/ their very last heuristic/ to prove it/ and only in our/ blindest anger/sparkling like a satellite/ we falter/ a repulsive continuum/ a mutilated ecstasy/ The armies have overtaken/ the capital/ Paradise/ a requiem

 

 

 

 

Growth

 

Whatever was left of me/ after the dream/ the night watch prowled/ wolves/ looting uninvited orgasms/ I am still/ one of the hunted

How could those/ so rank with sin/ with misery/ and hopelessness/ claim sainthood/ proffer a living, breathing/ judgement day/ guarding/ no/ this/ this was never about protection/ The disappearances/ crimes against humanity/ unspeakable/ new and improved/ methods of torture/ silenced poets and artists/ sickened the healers/ corrupted altruists and heroes/

The impossible became real/ we didn’t know where it was coming from/ sudden shooting pains/ dull aches/ we were being burned alive/ They called us schizophrenics/ they were stealing our country from us/ we had to find a way/ to defend ourselves/ we had to fight/ an invisible enemy/

These were acts of war/ unauthorized invasions/ turning us against ourselves/ against each other/ the final stop/ complete control/ enslavement/ they had such/ as sense of entitlement/ no boundaries/ ownership/ burning red/ they were stealing our country/ from us/ a burning red flat line/ our children would have to battle/ if we couldn’t overcome/ an enemy/ we could not yet locate/

It was never paranoia/ rather/ it was that we were/ fully aware/ of the capability of evil/

In the absence of choice/ lies enslavement/ violation/ both internal and external/ In the absence of choice/ there is a ravine/ of lost souls/ stolen selves/ and whatever is left/ on the other side/ of this makeshift reality/ is paraded through the streets/ what was once brilliance/ now a laughingstock/ by a torrid, mindless mob/ of witch hunters/ destroyers of dreams/ and potential/

All which was once held sacred/ now disposable/ to a frothing/ insatiable/ void/ of broken killers/

They are everywhere/ the Devil’s Herd/ the bringers of death/ holding/ what Aristotle named/ ‘The Immovable Movers’/ hostage in their own lives/ and make no mistake/ they will break you/ if it is the last thing/ they ever do/

For now/ all we have is our humanity/ that part of us/ that cannot ever be broken/ residing somewhere between/ freedom and struggle/ each/ our own compass/ metaphysical/ free to choose/ our own transcendence/ a destination

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Webbed

 

You told me

you wanted me

to die

today,

so

I rose

into the sky

of an approaching storm

at the very hour

of my birth.