sickly plagues on procreation
Come the Horsemen
put flies on the face of population
scientists pressed blind past the edge.
Make theirs the screams of poesies
that stripe night airs on ruban bands,
that scratch and grow in fading furrows,
that grade and till through silky sands
then deep as dearth calicivirus burrows.
Love's head song lorn has poison penned
the ultimate racial cleanser, pitched
face forward into world millennium three:
we sold our bethlehems
for seven silver sins.
Full term a tyrant's birthling pangs
line tanks avail that swords would swallow
below the scorched face earth renewed
avengeful darklord sky burns glow,
raiment skies flame remnant signs
on rivers bled of torment floods
and emptied words more empty fail:
there's no redemption, we stay in jail.
COPYRIGHT MARCH 1999