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DANSE MACABRE

Psycho Zen rugby terrorists
from motorised semi-auto
metal ammo dumps and
thin-lipped paranoids
and pitiless melancholes
square off for war.

Cold blonde Amazons
in tight black business suits
and spiked platform heels
deny my ripe lust for life
and issue commands to
corporate security thugs
to mutilate me where I stand.

My old mother would have sobbed
over my cold grey headstone
and my enemies drank from
deep tankards of erased memory--
it no longer matters
if a single solitary life
had once felt pain or regret.

Each new dawn peels back
the haunted nights
of sweating the terror
of unpredictable day
and constipated chaos.



HOMELAND

Portrait:
homogenised Euro-kids
on a train from
Luxembourg City
clear to Trier,
highschool kids
auf Deutsch,
the same body language,
the same moves
in this little whistle stop
(Wasserbilig at the frontier)
as they do in Granite Falls,
with a few, very few,
Mozartian sprinklings
for background music;
whussup, man?
I'm like WHOA,
big time!
they got swastikas
tatoo'd on their knuckles
nowadays and not
on their sleeves--
they wear their hearts
in their metal boots.