Living in the Background

The wet fragment keeps spinning
like a droll television rerun
playing in the background
behind a closed-door
with muffled audio seeping
through the cracks

a shabby mirror sleeps within my chest
squeezing the gelatinous organs
as if they were gummy clay furniture
till shallow breaths and faint beats
become each step into tomorrow

another faded billboard sign
to see on the side of the road
passes by with frayed edges
and half the message folded over
that the waves at the rolling vehicles
but the minimum speed limit pushes them on

doves land upon ant hills to snack
amid dandelions casting white parachutes
into the wind that's just passing through
as blooming yellow offspring
crack driveway while chemical pumps
keep spraying out the toxins

some edible flowers
were never meant to live long lives
amid the levity in blowing its plumage
across manicured lawns and barbeques
that build scrapbooks with etched dates
inscribed upon the moment captured

Cities were born to harvest as the sickies
mow down heads and heads
while the processed wheat is packed
into tacky cubed boxes
and the chaff pilled to the sides
but the wet fragment keeps spinning.

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I cannot say I remember

image credit: pinterest Then suddenly they showed the faces The change had found where they lived The names were replaced too quickly They found where they were hid Circled in wagon filled tragedies No one rides off to the west Attention now asks for a holiday While famila is held to the test I cannot say I remember Reading in foreign tongues How I wish it were yesterday And this world today was still young.

Grief |Poem|

Grief /Poem Image credit: https//www. image search.com This is how I have dealt With grief most of my life sharing it on paper instead of humans It feels safe that way, words don't feign sympathy and paper doesn't stutter It makes the grief feel projected As if happening to another person, Not me, never me, never now As if I am a mere character in a distant story As if the grief will end after the full stop, after the end As if fiction will drown reality And reality seem fictitious But of late, of late the fiction seems to be a maze A maze I have spent too long in A period longer than forever And now, it is too late to get out of and for human touch. If you like this poem or have anything to share, comment below or write at briambredeemson700@gmail.com

The dead don't die

She was burning your garbage, her sari caught fire and she died. He was cleaning your manhole, a pipe burst and he died. She didn't receive he wages, she hung herself and she died. He was wading through the drain, he inhaled poisonous gases and he died. Remember. The dead don't die. When the media turns a blind ear, And the state is unaccountable, When there is no money to send his body back home, and the public is indifferent, when his family is not given any jobs, And the city lives on in oblivion, Remember. The dead don't die. As you build your new house, carelessly discared your waste, As you choose your blinders And preach your progress, Remember, The dead don't die. And when you constructy your walls, And lock your gates, When you look paste the filth, And praise the state, Remember. The dead don't die. *This obituary is dedicated to the undocumented and unreported death of waste pickers, sweepers and manual scaveng...

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