Horde (William Furio)
SS Panzer Division
I wish I knew a place we could go.
The more it continues the more it feels like falling.
I really don’t think the ground was ever there.
There are men choking men in front of my mother giving birth
while dead bodies swing from the trees in front of my raped body
outside the church with guns falling in front of my father like payments.
This racist line continues to the horizon and we’re sick.
I have fallen in love with fantasy and dreams more than I could count on men.
I create with my hands, but they are starting to tremor and I’m so young,
I have never been young.
I want to tell you the extreme amount of pressure I’ve been under
and how my bed is a cloud and how the shower is my paradise.
There is a fixed point in my neck where I think it’ll explode behind my ear
if I hear about one more dead person.
The Empire State Building when it was flashing red for two months
sounded like it was concerned, but it was really mocking and pushing it down
our throats that white bodies will survive.
And here is where I lose my patience. And here is where I lose focus, the story.
Somehow during the fifth time I threw myself in front of a cop
I started throwing up and running out of my body
and the moment started glitching, bright static runs across the grass,
and the sound finally caught up with his mouth and he’s a dead bloated
capsized drill motherfucker gasping for life while I pretend that my hand
could be a performance on some screen untouched and already dead.
I have never felt more out of control.
What heart is needed?
Telling myself to calm down feels abusive.
I want to hurt someone hurting.
Maybe I want war.
The sea keeps exploding. And I keep crying.
The sea keeps exploding.
The sea keeps exploding.
The sea keeps exploding.
The sea keeps exploding.
The sea keeps exploding.
I keep hearing the failures rush through my ears
as I almost drown.
I get lifted up by a friend until they start to drown.
I have strength. I have strength.
I swim and flail because I can feel the sun,
I can feel the sun making the nerves dance on my face,
but I close my eyes because I start to fold and there is no one around me
and this time I decide I want to touch the bottom of the ocean with my hands.
I strangle the last hope until I’m too heavy and start to sink.
It is not beautiful. It is not kind. It is not brave.
I sit at the bottom of the ocean. Still at the bottom of the ocean.
And here I see the murderers and murdered.
I see the waves of colors when you allow yourself breath.
I can see the possibility of love and respect.
Here are the seconds between life and death.
And here I cry.
Brooklyn, July 6, 2020
—Submitted on 07/10/2020
Editor’s Note: This poem replaces a previous poem that had to be taken down due to conflicts of interest. Hence the date of the post precedes that of the poem’s composition or submission
The poet writes: My name is William Furio and I go by the art name of Horde. I am a performance artist and poet who lives in Brooklyn, NY. I have never published and have just started submitting poems in a serious way : ). The poem I am submitting is a reflection of my experience/a lot of our experiences during COVID, which has been hyper violent and suffocating due to the entrenched forms of patriarchy, racism, and capitalism that exist.
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