Drycicles

Aligned, ten thousand tin soldiers, no move, no

Sound, no sigh,

No quarrel. Tonight the invasion’s begun!

Let us pray:

Prepare the flowers of the field, redden the poppies,

Train your women to cry widow, train your men to lay

Bare

In front of our heroes.

No words can describe what the human stain

Colors

Two more hours we lay

On this field day. Tomorrow we’ll yell

Victorious

No more poppy fields, how beautiful is the chanting cascade of the

Widows.

The willows.

Her eye-lashes were black anemones, heavy dark

Persephone watching at the gates

A spark shot through the glass, then another

As my consciousness faded or

Rather

Dissipated in sleep.

My hair was made of black anemones, carnivorous

Medusae, turning thought into stone, sky and air

Sun that shone.

It’s not fair, a megalomaniac picture of yet one more

Discharge of chemicals; at the shore,

A flock of walruses screamed their agonal

Mating

Cries.

Mr. Black goes to jail

Smiling enigmatically at his judge and jurors

At the policemen

At the door-keeper

He still looks impeccable, his suit

The colour of void, of

Midnight

Starting right now, Mr. Black is a

Convicted

Felon

Strip him down, inmates

Take that shiny painting off, and wipe

That

Smirk

Off

His

Face