“There is an Evil that hates us all”
echoed long, a soul-hollowing call
on weatherman, high priest and blithe fool
for great Good is struck by Godly rule
to conquer Darkness, sunrise or fall…
“There is a Good that can do no harm”
rung out in the wild bombastic calm
of steely kisses flown street and farm
wrapped and loosed by the lip-splitting charm
of the Brotherhood, come arm-in-arm…
“There is a poem aft every war
sung aloud on hills of blood and gore
but which authored on a further shore
not yet alive, not yet here, unsure
a world of fewer people, not more…”
“Only bad poetry goes to war”
chimes hence with a victim-settling score
neither an all-or-nothing God nor
peoples disembodied to the core
saw more Evil than Good fade, withdraw…
“The world trades borders on futures present”
pangs with an earthquake fury incessant
as Good-looks now look fleeting, unpleasant
in the eyes of poets tongues tumescent
wax-working a hyper-waning crescent…
The Writers' Circus 