Note One: On the Tenth Day
You seem to share, with all tyrants,
a fetish for piled corpses
for eyeballs blown from sockets and left
to stare at void
for blood fresh in pools and blood congealed
for the orgasm that such as these are said to grant.
Yet, aren’t you missing something?
Have you looked up, recently, at the stars?
Note Two: On the Twelfth Day
Were you to leave the War Room now,
at this pre-dawn
before buttoning up your Emperor jacket
and were you to come to the Eucalyptus Choir
at the top of Chelmsford Road
you’d notice the bark robes of the choristers
which are so like silk.
You’d hear a baritone and contralto
conducted through leaves and branches by the southeast wind.
There would be a lull in song
before the chanting of widows rose up
alongside the keening of orphans.
Venus, still visible in the emerging light,
would inspire you toward something other
Note Three: On the Thirteenth Day
Yes, it is folly
an honourable ceasefire and retreat are still possible.
Just take off your Emperor jacket.
You will be respected
for closing the War.
Note Four: On the Seventeenth Day
The roar of orgasm
brings down the city
and ignites fire.
is bloody and poisonous.
It germinates hatred.
Your Emperor jacket
is made from the skin of children.
Its buttons are their milk teeth.
Image: Angel of Peace by Marc Chagall