Thursday, April 6, 2017

Blue Lips

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
along the narrow streets
and gradually dissipated
While you were seizing and bleeding
I was listening to four Czech angels
play the hell out of Schubert's
Quartet in G Major
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 bared throat.  
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 that would 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 held 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 it
were the dogs, their fear trounced by hunger,
and they sat quietly with ears pricked
and listened

No comments:

Post a Comment