Dissident's Song, v2

[RiverNotch]

Dissident's Song


I remember it well,
the right side's incandescent rays
a wall of plastic shields against

the sticks and stones, the battle-cries and songs,
the bottles and raw bodies hurled
by the seeming reckless stars.

Efficiency code for avarice,
I would have asked him if those same pliers
after he wiped them clean with his rag

then washed them, more thorough, in soapy water
and applied a fresh coat of grease,
he brought home to grip a leaky pipe

or work on some faulty wires,
if ever they came within inches of that
with which daily his kids washed their hands,

by which nightly his wife watched the kids,
but it's hard to hold on to any such questions
when someone pulls out your nails.

In fact, it's hard to say anything at all
whenever it's time for such interrogation,
not least because the clipboard carried

by his adjutant was blank,
the pen empty, the pair of eyes
and what lay behind them the same.

Thank God for his newly hired Kapampangan
that, for the whole week, he could not bear
to spoil his want for Dinuguan

with the pus-ridden shit stinking up the whole ward
whenever he'd slip barbed wire up my ass,
there was only what by that point

bored him to death, the Holy Trinity
of Meralco, Nawasa, and DENR,
throughout which one could plainly see

how the fixtures overhead
flickered when he clamped my chest
to his twelve-volt battery,

how the bulbs dimmed as I hurled
gore and the sea with which he stuffed
my stomach well past bursting,

and how they all could not but die
with the rising of the sun,
the bruises dealt by his kamagong rod
my orphaned children's birthmarks.

I remember it well,
the right side's incandescent rays
a wall of plastic shields against

the sticks and stones, the battle-cries and songs,
the bottles and raw bodies hurled,
seeming reckless, by the stars.

Efficiency code for avarice,
I would have asked him if those same pliers
after he wiped them clean with his rag

then washed them, more thorough, in soapy water
and applied a fresh coat of grease,
he brought home to grip a leaky pipe

or work on some faulty wires,
if ever they came within inches of that
with which his kids would wash their hands,

by which his wife would watch the kids,
but it's hard to hold on to any such questions
when someone pulls out your nails.

In fact, it's hard to say anything at all
whenever it's time for such interrogation,
not least because the clipboard carried

by his adjutant was blank,
the pen empty, the pair of eyes
and what lay behind them the same.

Thank God for his newly hired Kapampangan
that, for the whole week, he could not bear
to spoil his want for Dinuguan

with the pus-ridden shit stinking up the whole ward
whenever he'd slip barbed wire up my ass,
there was only what by that point

bored him to death, his Holy Trinity
of Meralco, Nawasa, and DENR,
throughout which one could plainly see

how the fixtures overhead
flickered when he clamped my chest
to his twelve-volt battery,

how the bulbs dimmed as I hurled
gore and the sea with which he stuffed
my stomach well past bursting,

and how they all could not but die
with the rising of the sun,
every bruise dealt by his Kamagong rod
a birthmark red, blue, and white.