Fresh Monument

Another quick, crappy poem I knocked off on my phone’s memo section whilst waiting for my dentist’s appointment. There is a new little monument near my home, erected in honour of those from the Orrell area whom have died in the vague ‘wars’ – it’s a horrible little thing; when I have the spare time, I will walk around and take a picture of it, but I’m in something of a rush today.


Oh, fresh monument to death!
Proclaiming that it was worth it, after all,
to free a land from murderous efficiency,
and give way to this murderous inefficiency!

Oh, stone-cold breath,
which exudes from your pores in the wind
dare your fingertips stretch up to inclement skies,
and your ears hear the trailing of such lies,
as those you were told you fought for?

Oh, nameless uniform
with rank unsewn upon your forearm,
in the absence of life what are you,
but a lump of flesh,
communist conservative liberal Nazi Jew –
titles stripped away by the enemy!

Enemy, or friend?
Curse of most unholy gift?
A fact of our biology, which you neglect to adore
even as you seek the smaller sibling,
in the arms of the male, or the female, whore;
and do you, could you, see God in those motions
in the gentle stimulation of once living muscle,
turned grey like the world –

Stone Bust of the Dead?

Like anything found in ancient Thebes,
or ‘neath the miasma of golden sands
clawing upwards, ever upwards,
like the molucules of Midas’ hands
towards the sky,
and the spirits who clamber through the dusk there
– Oh, stone-cold breath
– Oh, fresh monument to death

What a frivolous, frivolous waste.

As a reminder, The Caitiff comes out on Friday the 13th of February.

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