An ageless siege. The
soldier, he, stands proudly a ‘front his killing house,
Whistles of a horse in
pain the ghostly fire does source.
Indian feathers in his
hair, coloured blue and green and red;
The yellow but a fallen
crest now dangles on a thread.
Callous Captain of radiant
youth are you a moggy or a mouse?
Darting eyes, he conjures
all the primitives of wealth.
‘Good luck, you poor, you
bungled choir! May you quarrel on ‘til dawn!’
And summoned birds on
clay-clothed beds watch the fire rage on.
Civilian blood, once
dancing bright, now lathered coal in fossil black.
Each neon finger pointing
stiff, each cry a frenzied fugue.
Dissent for man is guilty
bait that turns upon these innocent slaves;
A sombre, hollow bell
does ring to grieve those to their graves.
Beastly boy! The sandy
hair, full of his tale of mad disease,
Is muddied wet of
wizards’ play and blinding rush of limb.
Over-head his captives
three look foully upon their fiery rite -
Vultures haunt and hunt
on dust and sing in to the night.
As mineral would plead
with man to spare the luxury of ruin
The evening sun shines
crocheted quilts that chalk the rapt within.
And when the cursed are
led away, their souls to navigate a place,
The bell that laughs
grows sleepy, hushed; the sun, a swollen face.
In pending fate, as sea
would breath, this cowboy Satan mourned the passed –
An elegy for battles lost
or robbed before the last.
© kate marlais 2011
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| Sally Mann, Candy Cigarette |
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