To Be or Not To Be
The Wolf at the Door
The Tale of the Dragon and the Rogue
A Second Advent?
The Devil Does Not Plough or Delve
A Curled Up Man Homo in se curvatus
A Winter Tale
The Early Cocks – Get Slain

There are no more hands to clap
they’re all strewn, hanging on the branches
(or are they just sleeves shredded)

all that is left from the cheap patriot and believer
or from the name of their executioner
engraved in the skin of his victim

the two raised fingers that once meant victory
are now poking eyes or testing the blade
with which they hone their eagle claws

(the other ‘eagle claws’ smell ambrosially
in the gardens of the homes robbed or burnt by other
odoriferous ‘maiden hands’1F that are now being kissed)

the strangled natives spit their mothers’ milk
nursed with blood from their foreign savage wet nurses
or from the victors riding their flaming chariots

the bodies of the living
are living bombs
remotely activated from The-One-That-Is

1. Both names refer to the same creeping plant and are translated literally (its real name is ‘honeysuckle’, from the genus Lonicera), only the first kind (‘eagle-claws’) is wilder and does not smell so ‘ambrosially’ as the second one (‘maiden hand’).

2018-08-21T17:22:49+00:00 March 5th, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 82|0 Comments