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Hail to the
Chief
By Richard Lawson
You flash
your filthy flower, your red pustule
with foul
black winding sheet that is your final word.
This is
your moment of fulfilment,
your
argument that cannot be denied,
since
everyone who sees this rose of death
is forced
to feel the hate that tortures you.
It echoes
on and on in desolate triumph
a set of
images caught in facing mirrors
trapped in
a split infinity : hate, hurt,
hurt,
hate, irrational regress, endless,
your wasted
world, where nothing grows,
no bird
sings, only a lacerating hate
that stains
your too-committed consciousness,
the perfect
canvas of your world, with blood of babes,
and us, the
bystanders, no longer innocent,
spattered
with hate.
We feel a
surge of hate for you, and so it goes
over and
even until death, which does not part us,
unless the
pity that we feel for your split victims
can grow
and blossom into a piteous love that swells
to cover
the whole world until it swallows even you,
you pitiful
child-leader, engulfing you in
pain-struck, hate-contaminated love,
the
leader who in some way we have allowed
through
lifetimes of inattention, to speak and act for us,
to mouth
these foul excrescences, these blasphemies
against the
Life that bears us,
to speak
these bombs on our behalf .
We
powerless to pity you enough, rightly to pity your pain,
condemned
to heal or share your nightmare
‘til we
die.
*
* * * *
© Richard
Lawson / 01:12hr 15 July 2006 |