his musket pipe and gun
becomes composed of blood
symphony of unforgiveness
played alongside
another's 'march funebre'
harmonic jarring
of epochal dimension
but the boy did well
he died for his country
unacceptable like otherness
venom to the defended
pox to the small minded
white knuckled like infantile rage
still reeling in sweat n
rank like chum turfed off the boat
for a trillion miles or so
all for some mythical shark-fin
but the boy died well
he did for his country
swathes of peeling bells tear-rusted
creak pendulous throughout heaven
amidst the sigh of all gods
at such a sodden human brew
made of hair and teeth in knots,
gravel and limb-sockets
or an eyebrow in a box
bits of some bloody poor sod
a poor sod
just like me or you
82.35.65.173
Copyright © Dot Allison 2004-5. All rights reserved.
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