Cuba USA
The Sahell of Donatello by Kamu Brath
OUR HISTORY / OUR TRAGEDY
The Sahell of Donatello
Rome burns
and our slavery begins
in the alps
oven of europe
glacier of god
chad's opposite
industry was envisioned here in the indomitable glitter
it out proportions the parthenon
the colosseum is not to be compared with it
nor dome nor london bridge bernini bronze nor donatello marble
there is more wealth here than with the bankers of amsterdam
more power than in any boulder dam of heaven
volt crackle and electricity it has invented
buchenwald nagasaki and napalm
it is the frozen first atomic bomb
its factories blaze forth bergs and avalanches
its unships sail down rhine down rhone
down po down dan down tiber
to the black sea dead to the world
to the red sea of isaias
without it the sahara would have been water
latvium carthage tunis would have been dolphin towns
genoa would have become a finchal of the esquimaux
columbus would have sailed south along the congo's rivers
but being immobile here
more permanent than pope or charlemagne
it has burnt rome
but preserved europe
as it rises
chad sinks
sahara wakes out slowly
the sly dry snake of the harm
attan reaches into our wells into our smiles. in
to our cooking pot oil.
in to the water re.flecting our walls in.
to our dry gully eyes
and the green brown dunn of sudan of rahdann of bel uur
of the great bent blow of the niger
sa
heel
crumbles into these flickering miles. the
silences of these hot holes of hell
drilled by the noon through the skull
into the bell of our belly
marrow burning its protein to gravel
skin mouldered to ash
holocaust of dome
heads propped up on sticks of skeletones
ball headed children
naked of all else but their large deep agate space age eyes
their chrystal tears all gone gone dead gone white gone salt gone silent
their large skulls cracked like eggs with dirt with puss with postule
who can no longer run or walk or even limp across these spaces
whose wordless cries come from a dry rag mouth around a dusty bone
my little halted lonely children of the desert
flies dying into crevices from all the fertile places
slack bladders of dried milk hung haggard from my mannequin
with only memories of nipple suck suck. ing their blistered lips. and the film crew cameras already closing in
like buzz like buzzards on this manscape moonscape in slow motion
herdsmen becoming scarecrows
their howls of silent dust wheeling across the supersands like paper water in the shadow of this snow and ice-cicle.this eye and eye-
less rise- ing gas face mountain
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