[According to my notes, I must have written this in 1982. Assuming that I don't lie to myself, this must be true. However, I have no other recollection of having composed this piece and exactly what it is about is beyond me. However, from the internal dialogue and the date, I can surmise that it was when I was ending my study of Semitc Philology at the U. of Copenhagen -- where I had pretty much devoured the extensive collection of Holocaust literature in the library there.]
There is no way to say these things unsaid.
It's too late to play it nice and cool.
The frozen flesh in freight-train cars
sheds moaning tears between the stars.
The night is angry, and you screamed "Stop!"
far much too late, my friend.
Have you forgotten the lines were stripes
of red running down naked backs?
You stand aghast because of these
And yet, their dismembered memory
still titillate your fantasy?
The night is angry, and you said "Stop!"
far much too late, my friend!
You can't forget the lines you read
were strips of naked facts?
Down the road, they were selling dope,
fifty pounds of antelope,
frozen eyes, beyond all hope,
were bulging from the hanging ropes.
The night is angry, and you said, "Drop
your trousers and bend over!"
"Twenty-five lashes on bare asses!"
"And all their clothes were full of lice!"
The long lines of tears are streaks
disappearing in the dust.
The underground parking lots
echo the unfortunate sound of rust!
"We only do what we must!"
"Her every limb is out of joint!"
"Is there a reason for all of this?"
Madonna's face shatters the morning!