Thursday, July 30, 2009

Poetry Year

It wishes for an age of fire,
of armies swelling, pikes upright,
black iron cauldrons upon the skulls of the living,
as they carry the skulls of the slain,
giving the birds the carrion of the slain.
All a buzzing and amarching,
like a legion of demons ripped from some illustration,
of Machiavelli's blackest tome.

Fie on thee, because it is not.
The blitzing blazing rhythms of despair come solid
into shards of heat that devour the flesh whole
and lick the skin off the bones.
It is illusion. For all the barricades and banners,
for all the missions and the manners,
for all the generals and the planners,
not one soul is saved, nor mind was changed.

Only that the screaming explosions have overwhelmed,
such sense as once resided in a mind.
Pulverizing the stuff of thoughts are spun,
as surely as the hollowed eyes of those,
whose life by phosphorus, was burned alive.

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