Tongue, bitch my tongue,
how I despise you
when you won’t stand up, won’t say
the worst, can’t say it—
how the cities swarm,
whole continents of pain still fester,
little children broken into bits,
with old men strung in ribbons
on the barbs of fences by a stinking ditch.
I hate it when you won’t say
souls are churning side by side
and hell seems air-conditioned
when compared to those hot rooms.
Can’t say it, what goes on,
what sad unspeakable and sweaty
corridors are walked now
but without you, bitch my tongue
rising to clarify, denounce, deride.
Sometimes I want a decent butcher.
I would cut you out,
then wrap you in the filthy papers,
chuck you in the street
where dogs can have their fill of you.
Even mere silence wouldn’t hurt as much,
would seem respectable
compared to what I’m forced to carry
in this big and silent mouth of mine.