Arson & Adrenalised dove
[ poetry - november 02 ]
He still has the scar where the monkeybar hit his face.
The old road always leaves its mark. There children forever
etched in his memory, the times-tables flashback, the laughter
when another fell and bruised a knee. The dogs look like they
might smile and no manner of praying serves its mercy, the
rafters and the bar heater lead, the insulation might not mark
the skin. The old road and more corpses on the television to
celebrate the glory of our times; my knees worn flat my tongue
swollen, the pages soiled as I bleed on the tattered analogies of
> books superseded by the new attention span. They may catch
and try to brand me, but I have 'sovereign' tattooed across my
shoulders. I have cut from my own back the flag you see outside
my mansion. I see the toads in the mouths of those that usher us
to our demise. No use to shake your placards outside the New World
Reichstag, you cannot put your tongue right on the diplomatic clitoris
(because) that whore-horse will buck you off.
The day I befriend an arsonist I am on my way to dictator.
We never emerge from the dance, from the ring
From the enchantment - Mandelstam
Thru the frosted crosshairs on the snipers rifle wept the
general of our rival faction. The violins he listened to were
unheard by us, but we could count the beat as he moved
his feet, the rhythm by his fists as he shook them to the tune.
Popular use of language/a risk to the citizen.