Wednesday, March 9, 2011

machine gun

Martyr has a machine gun

a magic wand trained on the man,

aimed at the head, arc of destruction planned

for the mark with the wicked hands,

who winces through blood-blind visions

staring and stammering,

quixotic pupils straining to scan for

nonexistent paths of escape.

Garrulous explications paint the anecdotes

he expectorates like the gore that drips

precariously from swollen lips- they undulate-

saccharine incantations, meant to negate his fate.


Barrel lording, unrelenting,

gazing on fresh lacerations,

mark genuflects, articulates

praises to an astral savior-

split lips spit his requisition-

pleas for forgiveness, for restitution

mindful all the while he’ll receive no reply.


Barrel lording, unrelenting,

mind decoding the difference,

the distance from adoration to hate.

His daughter frolics to mind,

all summer afternoons and pomegranate rinds.


Her reaction, seeing him die...


Wicked hands drop the machine gun.

The wand holds magic no longer

for the martyr who marked himself.

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