The dripping Gorgon¹s head
over the sands of Iraq, spittle of snakes flame out
from a thousand gun barrels –
at last! the two worlds unite in the death struggle,
the two as one to make a third:
fantasy is reality is fantasy.
America has become its own horror cartoon,
each thought locked within its renegade cell,
Bugs Bunny holds forth in the senate on
the bankrupt dream-stocks buried at Fort Knox.
Donald Duck meantime jerks off in disgust
over the American flag – quacks
the country¹s been bushwacked,
‘ain¹t worth a hill of beans¹
in archaic colloquialisms of a nation near claim
jumping the Middle East.
The last capitalist gasp v the last medieval groan;
eventually, to make way for the eco-terrorists whose
motto: destroy what you cannot save: will sound
the retreat to a history vaporised – a memory erased.
So we come to inherit ‘Our Common Loss¹.
The Space Shuttle Columbia makes
its long wave ‘good-bye¹
bright finger nails tearing at the sky (like)
‘morning Lucifer, that star that beckons all
mankind to daily rounds¹
scratching down God¹s blackboard
as seven souls fly away
toward the Pleiades.
So we make our omens to live and die by.