Saturday, November 21, 2009

Sugar Bullets

The counter fire flanks us.
I'm exploding again.
My comrades lay in heaps
dead like chicken soup.
Scorched Earth.
The Saxon shore becomes a
killing field.
No Danish axes this time but
armored cars and bullets.
Grinning sculls
I want to be
buried in the sea.

"Let's try to make it a
pyrrhic victory,
shall we," the officer
calls. The phalanx is blown
to pieces, and the contents
of my officer's corpse
open up before me.
I can't hear screams;
machine gun besides me
use up the sound room.
"Retreating," what a
joke. The reminders are
screaming for unconditional.
No one left to bury.
A rocket blows me away and
that's it.
I close my eyes
and finds peace; dragon's teeth.

For a day.
Dusting my broom
while Carnaby Street
changes coat.
Flagging a train
cheap drinks,
the spoonful of
sugar is balling jack while
monkey man


Jenny said...


A vivid picture of quite an extreme situation, to say the least. Nice poem!

Francis Scudellari said...

The narrative flows very nicely, with some great turns of phrase.

Christine Gram said...

Makes me think of the pain of trying to live. An engrossing poem that balled up in me.