“The more the merrily hermetic”

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, August 21, 2011 Under: Poetry


He always made strides
with the macabre he wielded
the throat of O’Henry
the good razorblade’s measure
of Otis O’Toole

He was a man who refused the jousting shield
and bet on the outcome of the dueling grounds
- the gauged potential of shrugging atlases
behind the winter warp, and a cloak in shambles
the dagger a non-accessory item

purchased in stores
before grandfather death was merchandised
all without lifting the impulse that lifts a finger
in an absolute mockery of absolute power

He refused to take the field at St. Mulloughs
or Dunsinane Hill, or the one with eyes
contracted swordsmen stood blood deprived, still
in a no Conan’s land, famished
jokers held sycamore muskets
blowing smoke signals to willing affiliates


Tuly a rebel without a homeland
he'd boast about acquiring

the last flags of an annihilated army
mourning their darkly cropped bodies
shields lined up as one, like termite lunch trays
human stains, splotches
on the candidly compliant terrain
a foggy green expanse
bursting with nature’s
most profound gift;
the corpses
of dead peacekeepers

In : Poetry 



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