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Friday, February 20, 2004
a strange fruit we are
Oh, the turbulent woe of the body!
the sick and senseless somber sigh,
the inept—they seem to writhe!
with bitten fingers, the nails hanged
on nooses on the flowering tree—
this is a strange fruit, a strange fruit
to be. . .
& wretched we are!
& hanged we be!
in divergence,
we flee!
Oh, and the inept—they seem to writhe,
how their bodies jive,
and how they reach—
how they reach to the sky!
grab us over, grab our heads
oh what a strange fruit, a strange fruit
this is to be. . .
The cigar smoking sky;
he has an ashen look in his eye,
and his throat is a rocky pile
where smoke seeps and lies.
And oh, his lungs are blackened
and seem to wheeze:
cough, cough, and breathe—
and wheeze—
would he die and all fall down,
or would he not have any cigars to smoke,
nothing to make him mope!
that would be the day,
the time we need not be. . .
but here we are, oh yes indeed
we are human beings!
inept wretched things,
and from us, the languished tree!
where ripe fruit hangs,
and nooses are ready
to claim.
but here we are, oh yes indeed
we are human beings!
inept wretched things,
and from us, the guns smoke and heave!
wartime is good time to be,
the death, the valor, the glee,
the permanent atrophy, the great deeds.
the death of one is a tragedy,
oh what a strange fruit indeed!
the death of one is a tragedy,
oh yes indeed!
but the death of a million
is just a statistic,
a number that stabs—
wrenches—lacerates.
and there they hang,
the millions on the tree—
the nooses holding heads
for all to see,
and only one
matters to me.
how pretentious!
oh how narcissistic of me!
but here i am, and here i be!
human being!
but were you to die,
i would remember you!
i promise, yes i promise
i speak true!
but my life
is not your life,
my pain is my own
and to have the toil
yield reason,
oh to have them remember me,
that is where it is good to be!
oh, would i were a maggot,
sucking most sweet divine!
but here i am, changing to a fly.
oh, would i were a leech,
sucking most sweet divine;
or would i were in a cocoon,
where i could spin and delude.
but here i am and here i be
human being.
most vile, malicious thing!
most perverse nothing!
for high we fly
when given wings
and flies we be.
and crude we are,
and visceral we see
when maggots we are
of fleshly breed.
and all we touch,
and all we see,
is all our lives
will ever be.
oh, and all we touch—
all we see!
all that is here,
and as we be!
oh, that is all
our lives
will ever be!
& wretched we are
& chained we be!
& damned we walk
& little we see.
but here we are
and here we be.
and this, this is a strange thing to be
oh yes indeed
a strange fruit we are. . .
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