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The Web Poetry Corner

Matt Varga


Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

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Matt Varga

Whiteman, the asshole of the world.
Spewing nothing but shit and contamination,
Goes forth in earnest pursuit of death and ugliness.
And finds himself.

Whiteman, as if proud of the fact
That he can turn beauty into shit,
Goes forth telling all of his great invention.

Whiteman, the disease with no cure.
The destroyer, the rapist, the peodophile, THE MOTHERFUCKER
Goes forth to share his uselessness with the world.

Whiteman, the pompous, bloated, drug infested boil
Has no business pointing fingers.
Goes forth and proclaims himself God.

Whiteman, the succubus in the grave waiting
For the innocent to walk over so as to claw at their ankles
Stays where he is as he is no longer anything.
For like a pimple he has burst,
Leaving a scar that will soon be gone.

Tomorrow I will be blind


Matt Varga

I can walk through my eyes
For they are wastelands.
I can see through my hands
For they are empty.

What use are my arms
If I cannot hold you.
What use are my eyes
If I see no beauty.

Yet you are there
And I am blind.

My lungs feel the sickly touch of smoke
And there you are,
Only to dissipate with the sun.

I have not dreamed until this night
And now I live in sleep.
And there you are.

Once more I see, once more I remember,
Once more like a dove, you fly to my hands.
And there you are.

Tonight I take a feather from your wing
For tomorrow I will be blind again.

73,000 people


Matt Varga

73,000 people
If you lined `em up how far would they reach?
73,000 people,
How many of them could we teach?
73,000 people,
How many of them a mother?
73,000 people,
See that shadow, that was my brother.
73,000 people,
How many artists, poets, musicians?
73,000 people,
How many workers, writers, physicians?
73,000 people,
How many of them a son?
73,000 people,
If we could only bring back one.
73,000 people,
A dead child in a mothers arms.
73,000 people,
Rotting bodies on poisoned farms.
73,000 people,
A nation under lock and key.
73,000 people,
That's how many burnt at Nagasaki.

The Moon and the Gutter


Matt Varga

The moon sees herself
In the dirty puddles of the gutter
and the streets are hers

Two a.m. and the fog kisses
and caressess her cheeck
as she walks towards the morning

The song of a wounded troubadour
echoes in her footsteps
and the wind howls a heartbeat
as she walks towards the morning

A moth dances in the jaded spotlight
of a mosquitos eye
and the streets are hers
as she walks towards the morning

She sees herself
in the dirty puddles of the gutter
and her heart is the suns
as she runs towards the morning