The heavy fingers, court marshalled, spin the blade

with sniping remarks,

and point the crusade

at a jilted peacock whose gaudy strides

have slackened any juice from the prize,

the neck hangs heavy and the talons

are covered in tattoos and flags

of colonies long since evaporated -

the people here are parched.

 

Angry military jackets beat the egg,

whipping up a jaundice.

Words treacle and then dead,

blanched with the Cheshire smile

collecting sacks

to drown

maps

and Father Land, you lied,

we all became your bride:

Stupid white veils to hide our rape.

 

Rosaries for fences

seems a supple tranquilizer.

The hand is on the trigger

the hand is on the trigger

the hand is on the trigger

the hand is the trigger -

 

Splurging ants, erupting like volcanoes,

earthly kites

tossed like salad  -

puppet strings could break

and society would be a real boy.

 

"Good bye God" The mourners cry,

"We shall miss you."