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The Last Moment Untroubled

We were teenagers, wild and open, children of the sun.
We were lying together in a field, tall grass a veil of the
sky.
We were teenagers. The love song that was our was playing
on the little radio, the world conspiring to reveal all our
heart.
We were teenagers. We kissed and cuddled and laughed.
We pledged our hearts, in innocence and freedom, no fear
at all.
We were teenagers, and knew not, that this was the final
moment of unclouded peace and bliss and wonder for us
in this world.
We were teenagers, and over the sky jet fighters howled
like banshees, cracking open the world and making us cry
out in fear.
We were teenagers, and the evil and brokenness of  men
and of  this world had found us, and this, this holy day
was our last as children.

The Eye Cracked

Twilight on the endless steppes, as the sun hazed out into starlight, the tall, golden wheat whipping in a cool, early spring wind. The endless horizon offered no where to hide from the eyes of Father The Sun or Mother The Moon. Up in the sky they would always see me.

A lifetime ago I had been a young man here, a soldier at war. It was all for the homeland. All for all the helpless depending on us back home. To stop the mad, demonic man coming from the east, like the sun.

The eye cracked, and out came fire and screams and the hateful stench of flesh left to rot. We’re all ugly when we’re dead.

Like a steel blade, I was forged and hardened in flames, and I knew what I had to do, and I knew for whom I fought.

I fought for her. Her angelic light kept me warm as the winter stole away so many, more than flames and fire. Cold is patient, like Mother The Moon, who wants her children back home again.

Her angelic light was real and decadent, and I knew we would both make it to summer, when the demonic men would be cast out again, the possessing spirits pacing in the underworld for another time.

The war ended. She was not there. The light was a mischievous spirit who used me for it’s own ends. Father The Sun had claimed her while she bathed. She was an angel with him. Never again for me.

And she danced up in the sky with Father, having forgotten the realm of weight and flesh. She did not even remember our kiss. Before the war, we had sat by the river, slim and silver. We had been enchanted, somehow.

Enchantment leaves scars.

She had kissed me. The last hurrah for innocence. It was warmth without lust. Passion without hunger. Peace in a lover’s touch.

Enchantment breeds hunger for more. More magic. More release from weight. More wonders to soothe a broken heart.

I became as dissolute as any drunkard. I chased that moment forever, with any girl who’d welcome me, into her arms or bed.

Nothing else mattered.

All the while she danced, having for free what I got in dregs and ruined rags. She was with Father, and she was adored and made weightless.

Old, with nothing to show for it, but the words made as hymns to lover, pale moonlight reflected from her in the sun. Words made to capture a moment, a high. So much useless amber.

Old and tired, and out here on the steppes, where Father and Mother can both see me as they come halfway after the divorce. They see me. They see what I have done.

Old, out here on the steppes as that bitter wind flows and cries and gets deeper into you skin and bones than any dream, lover or whore, to the very place all light is kept.

Old, and it all left a crystal tower that is wonderous, but whose foundation in sand is washed away in a single hour. What is an hour to Father? What is an hour to Mother?

And Mother comes down for me. The trick she played for her own magic. Making me love the girl Father claimed. Taking me away to be in the cold.

I’ll remember her in the sun. She will be blind to me in the moon. The weight will drag me to the bottom of the sea.

The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.

The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.

The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.

It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

To A Far Better Shore

An angel was seen in the area, pale and bright and golden.
>
> Not
to the strings pulling the bloodshed was she beholden.
>
> She carried
a man in her arms, who had been lost in the war.
>
> She carried him out of this world,
to a far better shore.
>
> So many bodies, so much blood, so many hearts will be broken.
>
> But it never ends, never changes,
all the same old curses spoken.
>
> The
angel walked, silently weeping tears bright as the midday sun,
>
>
along an shattered street, children, mother to be, all under the gun.
>
> The mother
to be feels her child stir, tearful as the angel passes
> silent.
>
> She wonders will it be
a boy or girl, love or hate, victim or one of
> the violent?
>
> She wonders will it know peace, will it know war, will it be
> cherished, or
tossed away?
>
> Will it be sheltered from this dead end world, will their be
an ear to
> hear it pray?
>
> The children watch the
angel pass, torn up by her weeping, and why it
>
all means.
>
> They counted flowers once,
and heard that angel’s happy voice, a host
>
and queen.
>
> Is that man
almost fortunate, for he is been taken home, to that happy
>
and eternal place.
>
> Is that man
almost better off, for he can hurt nor bleed anymore,
> despite terror on his face.
>
>
And the angel walks up the stairs to the clouds and to a hole in the
> sun, disappears.
>
> What damnable tenderness, what cruel devotion,
to see what can be in
> these tears.
>
>
And the silence fades and the bombs and gunfire roars, but the spell
> still lingers on.
>
> Will there be
a happy and eternal place for us, when death comes, the
> gun is drawn?

Blood Tide and The Black Machines

She rides her motorbike down the slim, unlined lanes of the country.

               The tawny fields of tall grain whipped in the cool morning breeze.

               Little farm houses off in the distance, behind grey stone walls.

 

               You’d never know what had happened here, all those years before.

               The land has healed, the trenches and barbwire all gone from sight,

               Though the bones and blood and the sorrow still soaks the black soil.

 

               She finally stops at the empty foundation by a tall and twisted tree,

               The one she knows from the old photograph, her father smiling in

               Uniform, a beautiful woman kissing his cheek, whom she doesn’t know.

 

               She pulls a copy of the photograph from her pocket, looks at it now, trying

               To find the remmnants, the ether of that happy afternoon, that sweet

               Moment before the blood tide and black machines washed them away.

 

               But it’s just an empty foundation, and an old dying tree, nothing more here.

               She still doesn’t feel close to him, feel his spirit coming near to her own,

               Just here in empty countryside, chilled despite the fact that it’s August.

 

               Her father is back home, and hard to reach, lives in books and theology,

               In internal debates about the hand of god and the fates of the angels,

               Not in the voice of his daughter, not in her madness he passed on down.

 

               She puts away the picture, starts the motorbike again, and roars down

               The road, onto the sea twenty miles distant, to the waters over which

               The Red Dragon came, and has returned now, the blood changing nothing.

The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses there.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.
The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.
The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.
It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

Warm and Beautiful

A quiet moment, all too short.
A moment to breathe, rest,
but not be at peace.
Fighting so long, so hard,
and it never fucking ends.
I daren’t close my eyes,
or sleep, or dream.
Just a moment in the war,
where there is quiet.
The war is here, still.
I look at the soft sunlight
shining through a hole.
It’s still warm and beautiful.
But we are still people.
But still there is a war.
To sleep, to dream, to escape.
Just a moment of quiet.
Not a moment of peace.

Her Picture

I carry her picture,
 keep it safe,
 and look at her
 by the light of the moon.
I’ve memorized every
 line of her body,
 the pattern of her dress,
 the glimmer in her eye.
She’s said we’d marry
 when I come back home,
 that she’d have my child
 and we’d have a home.
Yet each day is a struggle,
 each day is filled with darkness.
 If I never come back home
 will she lay a rose on my grave?
Her picture kept safe.
 She is all I live for now.
 To feel her arms around me.
 To be safe in her embrace.