Reign of the Quisling-Rodents

GOING FOR A WALK

42 Of the soul BLOOD BROTHER How much redder, your majesty Than that of anyone who dwells Within this rotund ephemeris Is the colour Of your royal blood? How much more majestically, your highness, Than my slavish blood Does it flow through veins? And should these razor phrases Go slitting your throat How much less gory will be its spill Than that of us; crumb-eating scum Who dwell under your mighty feet? Exclude me not from your genealogy, O! Blood brother, When next you draw up your family tree And when next you go communing With your illustrious forebears For benediction from the vast beyond GOING FOR A WALK Down the pilfering way, charted By quislings of long-throatedness To banks without a river; To banks without a dime 43 Of silver Through kleptomanic by-ways, charted By hydrogen-bomb desires Down to a waterless shore Here… To quench – With a glassful of Kalahari’s dearth – My pillage-wrought thirst They that glut on the land’s entrails Only set the table For a feast on their own children’s children’s brain matter When the last becomes the first; When the strange thing that goes around Shall come around SOIL Showers of heavy urine-rains: They percolate into thee; the season’s watery sewage, disposed From the bladders Of his black-suited Excellencies …and then Croaking, green-limbed things Hang down from the boughs; thy mango trees Have fruited frogs, ripening Into toads ...