We have an exclusive poem by Rupert Chocs, a native of France now living in Ireland. A rape takes place on an airplane flight, what is going on? Read on!
I have a thirst I must get off,
There is vomit on every aisle,
Seizures red the aisle vision
Not of engineers creed.
I hear unbridled, primal noises,
Grunting, slow and sluggish,
From the squid nose elders,
Panting sexual strains.
I see two men
Who rape the child.
Naturally who is in great distress.
The boy’s mother stout and morally brittle hushes him:
‘It is for the best, these are our rulers.
They know what is right, do not spoil
Our flight.’
These two men treat the child as one does their daily beef,
Slapping it onto a pan, cooking it till its skins pops.
The boy pops eventually too,
Lets out a wail, that deafens half of the sky province,
If only the gods could hear!
The atrocities perpetrated here,
Clouds of incensed fumes!
Everyone watches,
I see nodding,
I see those who hide behind
Their newspapers and in-flight catalogues.
They pretend nothing is awry.
Ah Yes the air hostess approaches- is there anything you would like?
I hear a crash; the trolley topples covering a man, spectacles and pterodactyl posture,
A slump of cardiac cyclical arrests slapped onto my concentration.
The tyrants, once finished, guffaw and high five.
I continue to write my letter:
Hello to you, I am, well I won’t tell you that for fear of my life. Which I hold dear, for life is not given out like bubble gum from a vending machine. I gaze out the window, France through the palimpsest of double knotted anxiety in my tummy. I see the bombshells, the unravelling chaos, the rubble, the tears, the pain, the intense moments, cameras, loneliness, red out!
Who is responsible for this? My horrid daydream, my lapse into apocalyptic skin melt, bones crunch, the lap dances of corpses, brandish the waking chortles of ash and chemically swollen bloodied skin, fly bodies sticking to the toxic furnace.
Dominique Strauss-Kahn and Nicolas Sarkozy,
Clean themselves up,
From their rape.
In front of me I hear, is it the sound of a poet?
"ton nez elfique et ton teint jaune me donne la nausée
tes paroles écoeurantes, dégoulinantes, gluantes me donnent envie de te roter à la figure"
My pulse races, every word, opens up a wound,
And a hope too.
And then even louder I hear:
Mais qui es-tu ? Petite chiure
Mais, mais, mais. Saleté d’avorton
Pourquoi, eh ? Tu te prends pour qui ?
Pourquoi ? Aspirateur à fric .
Pourquoi tu caches, pourquoi tu dissimules ?
Avec tes grimaces ridicules,
NOUS AVANCERONS ENSEMBLE.
La France est au français,
La dentifrice est à la brosse à dent.
Ne souillez pas notre terre de vos petits pieds nus.
Sommes-nous trop petits pour comprendre
Ta vérité ?
