Thursday, April 6, 2017

Quartet in G Major [with Sarin]



The dogs got the hell out of there    everything else bled
survivors kept describing the twitching, the blue lips
as the chemicals snaked their way and gradually dissipated
While you were twitching and moaning I was listening
to four angelic Czechs play the hell out of Schubert,
playing like all our lives depended on it. There was a flash
and another shell burrowed in, another building collapsed.
Another cigarette twisted into another neck.  The plane
flying overhead was just a plane. Everyone
jumped anyways. Strings of pearls hands like red claws the strings
wailed, crying out for the arrival of the next great
war poet to rise up and remind us how
important this all is, explain to us how necessary these
distant, anonymous deaths are, to launch words
to cut through the vortex of overlapping voices,
weaving in and out in a screaming funnel of static incessant babble
the moon was red and the screams were muffled
by the dust as the great poet rose from his knees to stand
with head high in a cloud of flies, reciting  late into the night
 great odes to our country’s greatness
the last rush of air escaping from between blue lips
the only ones to hear were the dogs, their fear
trounced by hunger, and they sat quietly with ears perked up
and listened

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