March 27, 2017

 

From a Stake in the Ground

 
 
 

I burn for the crowd.
My flesh, crackles and pops
for you, young woman,
blonde hair, pale face,
clinging tightly to the shoulder of your soldier.
My hair flames,
so you'll have light
for your knitting, hag.
My eyes sear,
all the better to see you with,
bent-backed, toothless old man.
My coat steams, buttons burst,
chest explodes, for the bemusement
of ragged children.
My throat gasps on its own smoke
so none of you will go back to
your hovels disappointed.
Crackling teeth,
melting knee-caps,
raining brain matter --
enough here for everybody.
And then there's my shrieking curse.
Have a little of that, why don't you.






Article © John Grey. All rights reserved.
Published on 2016-04-11
Image(s) are public domain.


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