Soldier do your eyes have the lights that flash out of tanks in the face of the snub of a terrorist gun and in they shine when his message of soft lead erupts from the lips of a shimmering barrel?
Do they reanimate a frantic heart sick of your Karma, loosen the bowel; trigger the playback of loving regrets before the balance of blood is lost, spilling to the ground with slivers of lead?
Or soldier, did you die the night before in Believer’s Heaven, locked in the crotch of a dark haired Houri, filched so you thought from underneath Mohammed’s slippered feet; virgin and wanting your dissolution?
She perhaps, taking sap that trees the nerves before the five – first? Aids to earth exchanged for the bright sight of a plum on the breast! No doubt your bloodshot eyes and rising smoke wring a coupling promise from that climax.
You’re a crime soldier, you embarrassed the breach – you caused it release in black chamber the redness that wept the no time that takes time, sputter of pain; unrepentant, the lover at the head.
Soldier, the lipstick of blood is smudging your collar, face twists like a child’s’ first clay. Can you now see who judged and passed sentence on your innocence? Your slide is the breast. Soft lead, the mat of your down flowing river.
My love what cheerless world asleep in towered keeps and half-lit streets, waking dream on sullen skies ridged grey; Lay waste land and cause the grey weird sea chill the heart of you and me?
What world awoken from dreams of meadows, water mills, and painter’s scenes, would tolerate the angered sky, the leaf shorn tree; the frost that blights the first-born bud, above the half-closed mist born eye of love?
Oath of God would life not be worth living were love not rooted deep in giving? Selfish worlds are drunk, dreaming fantasy; such men are never found in sight crossing borders of the Christos Light.
Soft rose whose petal fusing heart will give attiring the sweetest heart to ever live, deliverance in the dawning day will come refusing the permanence of death, and arise to prove the cause of all the living never dies.
Granite Sliver Arrowhead I see you spurned by Pigmy Bowman yet you suffice and scathe the greening mortar… Mind that delibly records attempt my show and outward personality.
This ribbon of a madman’s weave is the tape of all my saying small border thin and compass hand the clutch and stay Fingers…. Placing granite slabs to face their palms of tungsten flesh toward the shortened eye.
Yet soon the tongue of this my wise and scrawl became as fever pitch and heavy as the hammer held halfway in arc deliberating as the mother would pressing down urging fingers in the lock of Isis eye to the agony that is mother And now is mine.
The warder had me carry seven days in labour waiting… before the fertilising seed became and his eye perceived the ribbon of wise inflicted with my word and writing.
He stared examined even to the letter head lost in mergence to the polished stone turning, smiled…. Father dimly smiling through the stain of glass in the you can never tell about face….
He left and straight informed the governor.
The hammer struck the child full born umbilical cut began to cry…. My eyes were full of faces demanding outstretching palms of tungsten flesh. Their right they screamed is feeding first why was I no askance waiting?
They spread upon my word the slime and their cement that matched the slab and then.. Fingers turned upon themselves they commanded- called my clutching hand to lease my living Scribe this chipping sliver of their granite.
…. that morning after before the ashen face nether time of wanting day whilst less the night there stood eight mourners neath the sky bowl blooding red in their caps of prison grey and the circle turning tribute was the sower spreading quicklime.
And in my cell
There stood another waiting for the shining mortar’s greening mould.