Blizzard in early April
Coating forests & signs with
Icy daggers brutally occupying spring.
Even barefoot Mother Nature
Doesn’t know where to step in this 21st century minefield.
I think she might be sick of us.
Sick because of us. Damned by the clock.
Sick, doomed, fake. Swallowed by a fat red sun.
Long after I’m only the dust of bones.
How can you argue with the bible? Right?
Dust lies thick & heavy in big grey piles,’
Settling on the hunched shoulders of the balding West.
First they trade rounds of phallic insults,
Then intercontinental nuclear warheads mounted on long-range missiles.
Civilization gilded in digitally perfect royal roman purple.
The old lie in synthetic leather, polyester fibres, whisky, & blush.
Corroded caged creatures vivisected & studied.
As hard as it is to admit, it’s always been the same;
Bloody, brutal, blind, blundering monstrosity
Secreting trails of thick black oil
All over consumer suburbia, veins full of industrial coolant
Freezing & cracking along mental fault lines,
Tiny crevices where I hide my love,
Alive, still slowly beating, fragile as fire in an ice age.
I am angry.
Beyond angry. Livid, destructive, St. Helens
Raging fire reflected in my collected blades.
Powerless to save you all, too weak to help. Jealous, petty, rude.
Wrong man in a wrong place. Baby, child, boy, poet, addict.
I’d offer up my punished organs one by one.
Torn in two paths, no anesthetic if it would help you be happy!