This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO


It’s been years since I told the howling boys to run.
`Run', I yelled!
`They’re coming!
Coming with the chips
To let slip
‘neath your skin!'

O! This incalculable age!

The earth, now a pitched hue,
Everything roofed in ice,
The face of the Auschwitz sky now hovers,
Wrinkled and battered by the oven
Of its own treacherous star.

The trees have long burned,
All that remains are bony slivers
Jutting up like the spindles of those
Once most towering shafts.

The foul and the fish and the beasts
Have long ago finished eating one the other.
The oceans and seas are nothing more than
Vast echoing lands of waste.
The lakes and rivers and streams are black-knifed viens.

O! This incalculable age!

Years after the final battle
The pitching clouds of hubris blot the sun;
A tragedy mask etched in longing…
`Run, howling boys! Goddamnit! Run!'

Copyright © 2006 mrp

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