Sirens Ringing Dry
(eve of the bombardment)
Flush these locusts
down glitter-spined toilets
heard it said
rapid fire civilization
could use a good wipe.
Wash our sins in the holy river of
stop this bomb-blanket bingo
flying-high crowd pouring hot dirty fire
like maple syrup over the sweet cake earth.
Deep-fried, small-fry crowns of Europe
line up, joining arms
as arms flow into the sweet-wine pastures
faster than these
infidel eyes could even get wise to
the roaring silence…
Sirens ringing dry
every breathe a last iridescent wind
ushering us to our seats on the ground floor of
newborn horror theater.
Dark sundown eyes
the swinging brigadiers
circling Rue Des Martyrs
…the next one.
Through curtains of ash my eyelid slowly drifts
dark rain-street eternity
silent lamp posts
sacred swinging doors
lined up- a single file gunny sack race
braided into an
embroidered bed of ancient flames.
Sirens ringing dry
soul-poet burglars eye their
smoke house sauce
engraved tent’s burning candle.
Restless orphans of
midnight desert storms
grenade hopping glass-blown swarms
way out west
neuroscience lab bunnies on the loose
chewing carrot uzi pie
in gardens where regal statues hide, and
here’s the wind up and the pitch…
Missionary fucks dishing out pre-Masters & Johnson
Jesus bobble-head beat-a-ducks to Bedouins,
turncoat pineapples, candy apple wind chimes.
Barker yells step right up
chaos making babies
fast as thorny-horn teenage queens
keepin their duty to the wail of ancient screams.
Humanity pass the pipe
we’re all dark moustached piñata bugs
crawling in each other’s backyards
smoking caterpillar dances the watusi
in orange-lit gardens
throwing hail mary’s to the acid sundown sky.
Liberté, égalité, seniority
creeping wall shadows
paint the grenades with donkey flowers
watching Dick Cheney pork in the after hours, daisies drooping
from a rifle’s sultry mouth.
blow smoke on this changing world
sing and dance
hang a red rose on the
everlasting Jack Frost blasting yuletide tree
embrace echoes of sweet blue Allah
illuminate the broken hall infirmaries,
spin that smiling dreidel
on the stone heads of Jerusalem
atop gold-plated headstones, lamplit walkways
where a siren cries from her dark nowhere sea
let’s flee the fate of Frankenstein
before we drift my pretties
before we drift…
" On the evening of November 13, 2015, I was home in my apartment in Paris, when a barrage of helicopters and the wail of ambulances began filling our air and streets. It was clear this was not the usual Saturday night police round-up fare.
As an American expat, I had become quite anaesthetised to the loud ringing of sirens, as in my native US city, murders were a enough of common occurrence. So, while I was curious about what was taking place, I initially didn’t make too much of it.
The events of that night created a shift in the paradigm of daily living and the consciousness of Parisian’s. In some respects it felt like the last nail in the coffin of whatever innocence lurked in the shadows and pink lights of the gilded city.
As the horrific details came pouring in, my family and I sat stunned and initially in a state of disbelief. In the hours and days that followed, the disbelief gave way to the horror and pain that collectively engulfed the city.
In the wake of that horrific moment, I was moved to write this poem: “Siren’s Ringing Dry.” Michael D. Amitin