Reign of the Quisling-Rodents

INTERMENT

39 INTERMENT Remember that burial Of the living; How we all lay Inside our hardened-dung sarcophagus And that terrible platter Of earth upon the lid As the grave refilled? Remember those faces Clothed In the fabrics of expression, somewhere Between denim sadness and polyester leers Looking down At us; coffined scum? Remember the chatter Six feet above us, heard Somewhere between distinctive jeers and mournful cries Even as we lay there, somewhere Between living death and death itself? And government is a phoney loving husband Always dressed In that tattered suit of his shredded vows. I am his dear wife’s brittle heart Lying In vitreous shards These grab-and-swallow days Soaked in my tears; Days that, like a million match flares, Have shrivelled away from me 40 My faith in you reduced to latex FANGS The midday sun connives with These penurious hours of red-eyed days To scorch, with famine, The tender stomachs of little ones In the heat of seven-year terms Toiling gravediggers watch their perspiration Licked off their brows By the crocodile tongues of dyed-haired, moustached prodigals And milk tears, shed From suffering eyes: They fall straight into the longest throats down below Of black-suited gluttons On the same spot I take to my heels Away from fangs that daunt the world Breaking into a stampede The glaze-eyed faithfuls of misery’s creed COME WHAT SUNDAY! Come what Sunday Shall I be brave enough To cringe from These exotic star-spangled cravings ...