Little Saints...1
They are little, and no icons nor statues have been carved or erected in their names...they will forever remain anonymous...but not to me.
I have not seen their faces, but I heard their stories...and every saint has a story.
No wait, I have seen their faces, I have...I have seen your filth and ugliness reflected in theirs...and is that not what saints are made of ? aren't they made of human filth and greed ?
Aren't saints the ones who took it all in, absorbed all of you and were eventually salvaged from the human garbage, because make no mistake about yourselves, you are garbage.
Aren't they the ones who witnessed the unthinkable as some training ground to redeem you later, you vermin of the human race ?!
Well I have many stories of saints in the making...and is Iraq not the land of Gods, Goddesses, Prophets and Saints ?
What you are about to read are true samples...samples of your "Democracy, Freedom and Liberty." How I have come to hate these words...they have become like small mirrors in which I see your lies written in blood, authorized and signed by anonymous corpses...living or dead, we have reached a point where the differentiation has become so blur...where it no longer matters, because death sentences are issued daily...and the living are dead.
They hang saints in Iraq, they lynch them at an early age, they penetrate their insides with words...and words become swords, daggers, knives...slashing, beheading, tiny anonymous faces with no names...the slaying of Saints...of little Saints...
She was found thrown away in one of the streets of Baghdad...her name is Rita, like Saint
Rita, the Saint who answers your prayers...
She was abandoned in the streets of Baghdad, with her name written on a cardboard, attached to her neck like a dog who was once owned. A three years old dog, puppy, girl, blind...Rita is blind. Totally blind. You bastards, call it in your politically correct jargon - visually impaired - because you are so fucking sensitive arent'you ?!
Well Rita is blind, and she is 3. She is not only blind, she has a severely deformed face, a cleft lip that goes up all the way to her nose...split in the middle, a mirror reflection of how you split us in the middle...in all ways. A small mirror of your own deformities, your soul deformities...
She was feeling her way around, blind, with a cardboard sign around her neck - my name is Rita.
The local police took her to a hospital, the doctors did not know what to do with Rita...the little Saint Rita...she was left in the corridors of a hospital, a hospital that looks and feels like a public toilet, because your whores stole the money, the money for the little Saints...
Little Saint Rita, walked the corridors of this public toilet of a hospital, bumping into broken chairs and beds with no sheets...hungry and waiting for someone to diagnose her condition...her condition of a blind street child, deformed by your toxicity and abandoned because no one can feed her no more in your new Iraq.
I can't go on...your filth is making me dizzy...its vapors are filling my nostrils...the little Saints are poking me...they want to play...let me take little Saint Rita's hand and go smell the flowers...
I have not seen their faces, but I heard their stories...and every saint has a story.
No wait, I have seen their faces, I have...I have seen your filth and ugliness reflected in theirs...and is that not what saints are made of ? aren't they made of human filth and greed ?
Aren't saints the ones who took it all in, absorbed all of you and were eventually salvaged from the human garbage, because make no mistake about yourselves, you are garbage.
Aren't they the ones who witnessed the unthinkable as some training ground to redeem you later, you vermin of the human race ?!
Well I have many stories of saints in the making...and is Iraq not the land of Gods, Goddesses, Prophets and Saints ?
What you are about to read are true samples...samples of your "Democracy, Freedom and Liberty." How I have come to hate these words...they have become like small mirrors in which I see your lies written in blood, authorized and signed by anonymous corpses...living or dead, we have reached a point where the differentiation has become so blur...where it no longer matters, because death sentences are issued daily...and the living are dead.
They hang saints in Iraq, they lynch them at an early age, they penetrate their insides with words...and words become swords, daggers, knives...slashing, beheading, tiny anonymous faces with no names...the slaying of Saints...of little Saints...
She was found thrown away in one of the streets of Baghdad...her name is Rita, like Saint
Rita, the Saint who answers your prayers...
She was abandoned in the streets of Baghdad, with her name written on a cardboard, attached to her neck like a dog who was once owned. A three years old dog, puppy, girl, blind...Rita is blind. Totally blind. You bastards, call it in your politically correct jargon - visually impaired - because you are so fucking sensitive arent'you ?!
Well Rita is blind, and she is 3. She is not only blind, she has a severely deformed face, a cleft lip that goes up all the way to her nose...split in the middle, a mirror reflection of how you split us in the middle...in all ways. A small mirror of your own deformities, your soul deformities...
She was feeling her way around, blind, with a cardboard sign around her neck - my name is Rita.
The local police took her to a hospital, the doctors did not know what to do with Rita...the little Saint Rita...she was left in the corridors of a hospital, a hospital that looks and feels like a public toilet, because your whores stole the money, the money for the little Saints...
Little Saint Rita, walked the corridors of this public toilet of a hospital, bumping into broken chairs and beds with no sheets...hungry and waiting for someone to diagnose her condition...her condition of a blind street child, deformed by your toxicity and abandoned because no one can feed her no more in your new Iraq.
I can't go on...your filth is making me dizzy...its vapors are filling my nostrils...the little Saints are poking me...they want to play...let me take little Saint Rita's hand and go smell the flowers...
