war – Page 5 – poems 2 die for

SILENT

SILENT I am in the library hunting for tales of darkness and light feasting on the silence some poems are silent this we must respect in a world of horror what can a poem possibly say? some things are terrible some just overblown too big to talk about in a thing called a poem I have worked my way through this book labyrinth found what I was targeting exactly what I was after wondering if the books of light in this library are protected by angels flashing in to defend humanity, promote safety and justice bomb dropped falling as I wonder whether a golden robe goes with the territory is the absolute sign of favour presence of the light

NOODLE

NOODLE far from anywhere in the city of Noodle people flattened by the shockwave here left them aghast at this branch of the species so much to learn, too little time in this state of decline our total destruction they fear

OH MUSE OF SATIRE

OH MUSE OF SATIRE

oh muse of satire

make the armies small
as the pipsqueaks of Lilliput

make the kids big
as the giant children
of Brobdingnag

then
in the eyes of God
we can have us
a fair
fight!

SNOW

SNOW think of snow when the white phosphorous touches you think of ice and cold, cold snow passing through your body travelling through your bones

WHEREWITHAL

when a poet
stands up
to a bomb

the bomb wins

we all
lose

the Universe
stood
with

her

with him

OF THE AGE

OF THE AGE lies live lies survive lies fly all over the place so much destruction in their wake their instinct being to replicate split like mutant cells divide and be careful how you yourself do define for here service to the lie loses the light goes completely blind for shadow has shown too easy it be to mistake the love of a death embrace become the thing we fear we hate the beautiful hypocrite of the age the lie in us so consummate

HOLES

there are holes in the paper
places of quicksand

the words cannot
traverse this broken landscape

move at pace
across the page

shocktroop you with
tactical juxtapositions,
lightning images

no
the whole nature of
poetry has changed

those books on mechanized modernism
so obsolete (ultimately
so) better
thow
them away

only good
for metaphor

subtext is where
the power now
lies

A WORD

A WORD

let me have a word

let me fill
you in
from a poetry

am going to need
twenty, maybe
thirty
thousand
characters already

oops1 sorry,
my apology

did I say
“characters”?

that was a bit
of a fatal Freudian slip

I meant to say “words”;
no sorry: lines

no I am completely wrong

in the wrong

to do this justice
I need to write
the final
death count
as poems

WARRIOR

WARRIOR raw farmer land stealer we that being the writers and intellectuals that survive will divest you of that coat of light dump true dark self in the dock ship you off far far away where you dare hurt nobody get you to sit in solitary explain yourself to yourself dark and light selves in their bitter final conflict

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