Reading Celan while eating pumpkin pie,
everyone knows Holocaust Poetry
and seasonal desserts juxtaposes
death by organized troops who testify
in post-war trials against superiors
never accepting the geometry
given by God for the care of roses.
Certainly reading Death Fugue satiates
every reader of their thirst, inferiors
live and let live while others hang high,
accountability goes up in smoke,
"never again" sworn, turning a blind eye.
Welcome to genocide, those words we spoke
hopeless to stop while the sun radiates
incoherent plasma to scramble eggs
like minds warped by heat to systematic
elective perjury to save our souls.
Entertaining readers, the question begs
at who profits from others' misery,
telling tales of murder in the attic,
in movies, on TV, we are but ghouls
nourishing ourselves on undead zombies,
grants our none the wiser admissory.
Pumpkin pie and black milk, I cannot lie,
under the circumstances, I must speak,
must speak truth to Pilate, I cannot die
perniciously placed on the Cross, a freak
killed in gas chambers, our naked bodies
intertwined in mass graves, who comes to pray,
never the perpetrators but the choir.
Perfect, sweep the ashes into the fire,
insist our documents the costs defray,
entertain readers, watch a donkey bray.
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