Devil – poems 2 die for

DUE PROCESS

give the Devil
his due

saw him hauled into
court for
every human rights
violation in
the book

mainly because
he wrote the book
(proudly proclaiming
we are
still
only half through it)

been up to his crimes
against us
since the beginning
of time

which i am here
to spin as
errors of omission, simple
misdemeanors

with this battery of lawyers
up against us
how on Earth could
guilt be proved
beyond
reasonable, terrible,
existential doubt

and with jury
of peers from
the ranks and files of
humanity
carefully conscripted

and that Jagger-
Richards song fatally ringing
in all
our ears

a convinction on
even the slightest and
most trivial and
totally indefensible
political offence
amongst all
of which he
stands accused of
commiting since
the dawn
of time itself

impoosible to get
the court
sure

to reject
upon which, as I open
my case for the defence,

would
bet my life and
immortal soul itself

so give the Devil his due
his day
in court and

trust the process

BEST HE CAN DO

RATTLER

they kill
the ones that rattle
louder they rattle
more sure
their death
a fact

Oh, the rapturous ones,
you who do
murder all
these creatures

as soon as you say lord
I am your ambush preditor
whipping up
a juicy cocktail
I am determined to instill

and strike I will without warning
for you have sorted me
by selection

no doubt
you see
me as your devil
think
I could well just be
pure devil

this my utter evil nefarious plan
not thing
delivered unto yourself

WEAVER BIRD

WEAVER BIRD

always on the farm:
flash of bright yellow
across my
line of sight

furiously at work
building their nests

chirpy
masters of
twig engineering
brandishing their
golden purpose

meanwhile, since we
are on the subject of
nest-building
and things
with wings

let us observe old Nick
leaving his helo
having just be ferried

from quite distant shore
to Mediterranean ship

pausing a moment to
stroke brash steel,
sculpted aluminum

of the true
spirituality of the war machine
lover
extraordinaire
paramour to the extreme

blowing kisses to his image
where
reflected in such surfaces

every drop of bloodlust
contained in booklet form
in jacket
inner pocket

there
blueprint
of a world gone skew

slavery redeemed
refreshed anew

Sun
itself

blind to the glaring ironies

so much
to fix with

all this weaving