Bombs in bin bags, and little boy soldiers
bearing Kalashnikovs and a soul–stolen stare.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ you said, as the
flickering black and white faded to scarlet.
These are the stuff of your dreams.
Millenarian fantasies girdle the earth,
faster than Puck but slower than the light,
and the world goes to hell in a hand-cart.
Yet you are no Pandora or Cassandra,
though your hope still hides in corners;
skittering from room to room
she whispers to no-one in particular:
‘Burn the churches, the temples, mosques
and synagogues. Piss on the grave of
consumerism and I will bless you and
bring forth sweet wine and roses.’
When I make the call you are climbing
another mountain, screaming at the
gathering storm, and the words stick in
my throat: ‘I love you. Please come home.’
Russell J Turner – June 2011
2 years ago