Manifesto

Manifesto

“That things ‘just go on’ is the catastrophe.”
—    Walter Benjamin

So much had been shared
and the gossip of what the men did
at the back of the house flowed
like water from a cliff.
The old mother sat by the brazier
and reissued what was told, once, by her mother
to the boys who begged for a story;
they would accompany each chant with a clap.
But the guard was, indeed, cynical, against men,
and refused to believe the men were ever there
as what made his claims
was the fact nobody came to the rut, leading
to the entrance. If it made the conditions of rurality well,
the children were distrustful,
not anxious, and she went with it.
Years before the story and before he manned the gates,
the men who craftily whistled in a pattern
were there. At the premises, the boys
heard their calls.
It didn’t matter if the fast exit of air
unfurled and possessed no meaning.
They lay in the high grasses, persuasive.
The chirpings razed the pleasure,
weaved alongside the hoots of owls.
Who profited more and out of this?
Cum-stained pants would prove
a meeting which, in return, ensured
the boys had another day of meal.

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