Monday, April 30, 2012

The Warmonger

Charred thoughts and tar;
His silent scream reverberates around the neighbourhood
And the birds flutter away in haste.
Fear permeates the silent cobblestones,
Blood and lust wander aimlessly through the grotesque mind of the sleeping city;
Incomprehensible language seeks to communicate
Feelings, emotions, warnings, dreams.
He does not understand.
He flaps his hand and moves his body in wanton ways –
The children laugh
(They have not seen anything like this before),
Except for the mute girl standing shyly behind all the others:
She understands.
For a fleeting moment, all is right.
What more can a man want?
What more can a man want
But that the thoughts he scattered freely have sown new seeds
And pollinated and germinated and grown into massive oaks
Holding fast against the approaching thunderstorm?

Imprisoned, worked to death, beaten and scarred and tortured and electrocuted,
His struggle fuses with the electrodes in his brain
And conjures new magic
In smoke and chilled beer and the soft touch of meaningless sex,
In laughter and music and stories and death,
In unseeing eyes, twisted reason, images not of this world,
In the warmth of the bed that clutches him to her breast
Never to set him free
From the peace he seeks to steal
(Innocent of the knowledge that genocide rules his soul).

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