Friday, July 24, 2009

By The Mouth of the Dardanelles

So, you would flagellate
me and my men, for our works,
your cruel crop whistling "thus and thus!" and
"be it so, or else!"

It seems the gulf between ye and me
delineating our two worlds, the left and the right,
is an irritation too great and
insurmountable in your eyes

Lay down the callous whip!
tame your flaying tongue! be still!
your fights are nothing~devoid of mass
mere shadowboxing with dust motes

This cat of nine tails that you bring
grunting to bear on naked flesh
hissing it in it's arc, ruthless in extension
scores not so sharply as you would suppose.

Fiend! Troll! Knee jerk!
I smell your breath a thousand leagues away
all your darts amount to shield plunks
and laughing, I'll not be swayed!

Continue then, hammering at nothing
wearing out your spark, your soul~
both pith and guts were never found
in the emasculated rantings of a rubbernecker

True grit is bound, covalent
to the man who moves forward despite
knowing naught but his own soul and steps
and still surges forward with a roar despite the blackness.


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