Small Things

A concupiscence of clichés

“Yet the things we fear and the things we want are small things…”

because bullets are small things
to the gangs the gun is a good thing
a little lead lost a hornet sting
a host of beelines to bloodflowers blooming
in the small hours resulting small powers
assault bars the clubs oppress the big and the small boys
driving new toys into the present role so no coquette is coy
they find small joys expunged in small deaths
indulgent sighs fast breath a spurt a shot a scream
at the funeral where there is no wreath with scribbled cards
from small girls or widows diddled in small rooms
back of the temple where the strong the simple sink in supplication
as foundation for extirpation of the damnations of small sins
still we seek the shepherd or golden throne to each his own some were
damned right here do you hear the sheep jingle small change
when the reaper rings in the offering the weepers bring
no small things heaps of hundred dollar bills grace the holy till
if you will revere the small thrill of a chill stare
in the small of a back that heeds the dance call
shuffling small steps down the aisle is windswept
a storm of wealth washes the waste from the way
of the worldwise who win no small prize
by the light of their most high eyes behold rival smiles
all hollow pockets in small hearts shaped​ to bear
gold lockets picture the main goal the prime
objective to work this narrative through
the red and blue blood selective into newborn purple algorithms​
do you dare cure nepotism deplore our small fiefdoms
in corridors of corrupt cannibal kingdoms
change could soon come not before small bombs
destroy smallholdings displace small farmers
former friendly peoples held in small camps and fed by fiat
at the whim of small gods call the charity workhorse
perpendicular crimson cross black slash askew
a counted bean by which a small world is weighed
and worth is ascertained in small chunks of loss or gain
they strive you strain we still feel the small pain
of the perennial pinch proverbial itch
far from rich grown men saying bros gimme small thing
but you know say no be small thing can this be all it brings
hardscrabble small scraps scraped from schemes and internet memes
we ape small remains of past masters jape at our small minded greats
thronging their thrones in bondage voluntarily to be owned
modern Kunta but with no backbone we change our names
recant a small refrain bemoan our own decay
no more ships we are flown away might be coming back
but not today return to Fourah Bay in lack of leagues of ivy
the sand silt salt and grit will stay in songs sirens sound
the call obey make small way below beneath beyond collared chains
shame the endless goad trudge backcountry roads
witness what they know to their woe smallfolk engage
in trade exchange small things in small deals
to fund the flee to find the frigging fleece
the fault is in the land and not the work of our hands
leave cassava and cocoyam for fools and failures to botch
and bitch because none of this is core let the labourer
have the small chores now we are bound for more in urban
sprawls of yes we can become a boss and be the man on a bike
or better yet a trike yet to strike is not why we unionize
cut coats above our size there is no crime when
the risk repays the time we hold the line shine your eye
find optical illusions political collusion small time thugs
control and win elections or bug out in planned defections
either side derides introspection driveby sections of the senate
dance others prance on hostile boulevards
we dropped our guard on muddy sidewalks and small streets
that parallel defeat in upsidedownload video intro
small clips mimeographed laughs will spread in time
with choreographed chants of dance in line with
outroverted moves of song sublime sometimes
perverted to supply the high they crave audioslaves
collected in coughless conclaves around
the small graves of volition and their own say
flies following cadavers all the way down
the superhighway feed on small bytes cast away
deceit deployed to win the day weeks months decades gone astray
century one was authoritystolen those controlling
bodysnatched posterity we hardly catch kidnappers
back to before where we started because as it happens
dear violently departed acquiescent incumbents we share
our sleeping small giant nightmares were pressganged
into one nonnation under the gun is an odd thing
because bullets are small things