On The Sabbath

When your bald leader
Needs a wig
Tell him to come
Across the wall
And stitch it with our intestines
Tell him to moisten
His weary eyes
With our blood
And make combs
With our dispersed teeth
Tell him to bathe
In the vomit
Of mourning mothers
And tell his entourage
To drink from our scattered bladders
Perforated
By
Neat, manicured bullets
And roast our hearts in
Undigested flavours
Rotting in street corners
Garnished with the saliva of
Privileged dogs

And this your holy land
Our holy land
Must perish
because
Guided by divine providence
the chosen people
kill on the sabbath
Today it is 1262, tomorrow…
I hope your laughter chokes your breath
Your whisper slits your throat
Your sigh crushes your heart
And your smile splices your skull
And I hope nothing happens to you,
except that you stop!
Where is Moses, now?
He’s praying for his people
Surrounded by a wall
And breathless in fire…