Ledger

Always, a high premium on speech:
& should I dare say the unspeakable –
the hidden corpses, the smell of gunpowder,
the trail of blood, the circular wind of fear –
what of it, then? Lives in the tropic are cheap:
you can always order new ones to replace the old –
& stories will expectedly repeat themselves.
O is there no end to the nights of knives?
Someone yells: No, no! Enough! Enough!
& they, the trembling crowd, disperse,
scampering towards the pubs at the edge.
Another one persists: Enough! Enough!
& the thinning crowd nervously replies:
You fool! You’ll get killed!
Truth is bad money here!
Always, a high premium on speech.

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