Brussels

Sickly sun on sickly trees,

whose spindly branches crave

a better life, lets me know

I am here. I have arrived.

No welcome will greet me

and no change will be registered.

It doesn’t matter. The sad,

pale yellow light will not

shift for me, and the weak

willed wind will continue

in the same unbroken breath.

I will not impinge upon

the consciousness of this

ailing town, and not on

yours, either. I will come

and go, unseen and unheard,

unmissed and unkissed, and you

will never know.

Housewife

She would go into the mountains,

or woods, or some other quiet place,

with no bullet or blade for her ally.

She would find some cold, silent

night, and lie down in the damp

grass, and let that be the way

she would go. Her heart was sore,

a dead weight in her chest, and she

wanted it to be light again.

If she could choose, she would leave

her stupid life, and start again,

by melting into the earth.

She would drift down, down,

down into the soil, and let

the worms and bugs and critters

free her. That – that would be

the way she would go, if

she could choose her ending.

That would be that

“But why shouldn’t I?”

she would scream

in a voice much,

much too loud

for indoors.

They wanted to quiet

her, and still her

swinging fists.

They wanted to

hold her down.

She knew this. It

engendered such rage

in her that she

thought her very

skin would burst,

like heavy fruit, hurled

against a wall, smashed

with the awful

hammer of the

unfairness of it all.

Her juice, or blood,

sticky and oversugared,

would spray their

white quiet and

that would be that.

But they would win

then; they would be

right if she let herself

explode before she

proved herself worthy.

They could clean up

the nasty, red mess

and forget the

whole sorry business

if she did that.

No, then. 

She must breathe

deep and spread her

arms wide, from where her

wicked, wonderful wings

would unfold, and that

would be that.

War!

War!
Glorious war!
We shall march on you,
whoever you are, for
men were made to fight.

War!
We must have war!
For what is life
without death? Peace,
without corresponding
destruction to make
you glad of it?

War!
Give me war!
A man is nothing
if he has no martial
ambition, no lust
for weapons and
bloody combat.

War!
Any war!
Give me senseless
struggle. I have no
need to think, only
crush, kill, maim.

War!
Ceaseless war!
Fall. Break. Bleed.
Die. Fall. Break.
Bleed. Die. And
onwards, ever
onwards, until
we fight again.

Your face

I wish to reconstruct
your face
I wish to conjure it
from memory
I wish to invoke your eyes
and summon your hands
I wish for more
than pictures
lodged
somewhere in my mind
I wish for solid proof
that once you existed
as part of me
I wish to recall you
and recommit you to flesh
I wish to compel you
to come back to me
I wish to resolve you
reissue, and remaster you
I wish to enjoin you
entreat you, implore you
I wish to beseech you
to be bones and blood again