I’m watching the
wailing blue smoke tendrils skim at speed
up and down the length and breadth and depth of the concrete
walls, singing about
white phosphorous and
good will to all men,
Calling
in paint of every colour and dust choked words
so hoarse
that tremors set trembling tongues
to the talk they always kept brimming in their chests Friday mornings while
their foreheads pressed threadbare carpets

All the time
the money runs black and white and green and cloth and coin out of Gaza
and in to where it tornadoes, gains eyes and envy
and strikes out fluid
Frankenstein lightning
battering ram
besieging the dissidents and stuffing underwear in the mouth of the West
and stuffing itself in the pockets of the West
and knocking on doors crying
the rhythm of Pogrom, Pogrom, Pogrom, Zion, Zion, Zion.