Aftermath .. .

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The tragedy of universal world order
conquest versus the scope and scape of nature
from Tehrain through the truthful priest
of Tibet to Queens then off to California
the Goldrush has arrived in this sylicone valley
Abysinia, Algeria, the caves of Tora Boro
said Ghengis Khan to all his sons hold ye well
to this protestation – ‘surrender or you die’

A despot perceived as second in popularity
to Jesus Christ both whose legions followed after
Temujin before death just an ironic if iconic statistic
created massive history with no followers apostolic
formulated by the exegesis of contemporary light
we view the hill of heads that were laid at the feet of
his great god Tengeri with only ruthless ferocity
before Australian wine, the Maori haka or the hakui

How long has it been since Japan became your brother
their cars and culture, your Kawasaki throttle open to a
captivating industry, Tokyo became a place you want to see
forget Hiroshima next to China, the rape of Nanking
women’s bodies lying on the street, hundreds and thousands
which is truth, which is lies, no truth without the smoke of fires
mass graveyard where khakied soldiers buried all your dead
where angels sing, peoples do recover and build again

Hard to mention the barbarousness of other foes
prehistoric murder, foundations devoid of closure
except my stomach turns over at the stench of humanity
we are happy to forget, turn blind eyes to society tourettes
one life to lead while others bleed, elsewhere war-torn lonely
where children pick through refuse for a meal without abuse
plagues and sickness, coronary disease, we wear it well
a smile upon the face it hides another Peyton Place

I’m receiving images of the steeple at Cologne Cathedral
it survived horrific bombing, what of the German people
a photograph or two to remember the aggrandized view
I was with my mother who recalled blood on the streets
bombing raids, architectural cascades, limbs severed in rubble
she was never comfortable in Cologne, how could she be
all she wanted was to forget the doodlebugs, the silence after
under the stairs in Mitcham, another night of awesome horror

We forget the holocaust at our peril or any evil we have known
perpetrators, the clue is in the name, humanity shot the sheriff
a quiff of pain, a soupçon of blame-shame, do you really believe
your god will forgive what you did or do, my god or any god too
Adolf and sons, painters and decorators who painted the sky
as black as pressed Shutzstaffel uniforms, if I lived in Cologne
if the morbid moon hung red for one more night over Aushwitz
or Chaldea, or Cambodia, Rwanda, Armenia, Yugoslavia, Haiti

Build your war horse outside the gates of Troy send a messenger
across the ramparts of the Crimea, raise your siege ladders
beat your ploughshares into weapons then beat them back again
when war is over count the dead, bury the dead, honour the dead
remember they are dead, they are dead and long forgotten
besides your illnesses, your ravaged health, your siege tested
capital wealth that is rusted, encrusted with mould and scurvy
the captains ship has been locked down aboard with dysentery

Blow the whistle, sound the horns we cherish, youths shout, come
enter drunk at our jubilation party let us bury this winter of discontent
raise new billboards, announcing new directions, sound warnings
hoist the flag, dress old Dobbin the horse in his Sunday best
we are so good at getting over, sliding under the precipice
our memories are not inclusive of past told stories
we make coffee-table books with photos that record our glories
battles ‘we’ have won, only mothers lose daughters and sons

Lay down weary soldier on another battlefield like Altamont
remember Meredith Hunter and James Chaney, Jimmie Lee Dixon
he was born in ’38, murdered in ’65, buried by Klu Klux fanatics
from ‘outer space’ we may view the tributaries, rivers and the spurs
of a snaking queue of peoples in different mourning colours
I hear the drums of war, find your stored, heaped memories
should I leave them by your door, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
for sleep to settle, sun to rise, the march of time to dry your eyes

Ye chronicles of pestillence and war, etched in sorrow, wide as any hell
becomes a desert we must cross to find the seven fatted calves
and when we cross we may announce that god is dead, we alive
attesting no virtue to a maker, a helper, an aide, a saviour
we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves down, we start all over again
without a show of Nicolaas Tinbergen’s theories on emotion
instinct is the mother of us all and by consensus we deploy
wait only till tragedy wraps its fateful arms around us once more

                                                                      ©edenbraytoday07.08.2021