Not Just This War

This was the Promised Land, and still is

To the persuasive suburban land agent

 

It’s the slaughter of the young girls

and the laughter of the old men.

It’s poetry and nothing.

No product. No salvation.

No thing at all.

The hawk wings beat

in slowness is beauty

said the poet with

his hand on a gun or pencil

he pushes into his groin

his private penal colony

walled off

against the weird

word of the world.

Nine of Clubs - Stephen Ellis
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