A Massacre Carol:
The Tragedy at [insert here]
[16. December 2012]
[15. April 2013] rev. 2
Every now and then handfuls die
not the petites morts of indulgent hands –
the world’s oldest profession
but by world-weary murdering ones
who practice the age-old passe-temps:
making a brutal orgasm of flesh
Forcing us to see that even they are made
in some form or another
in one or another god’s image – deconstructing creation
eager – fearless to throw the first stone.
Godliness needs be contained from child’s play.
But how from a seething populace
of reapers? Greedy hands with satchels empty
of germinating seed and nurseries in a high-gloss blue
barren of young ready for sowing.
I’ll have not another special televised report.
No cheerful, gorging, gluttonous newsmen
in need of ipecac nor freelance art directors
grateful for some little work
whose “BREAKING NEWS” chyrons envy 3-D.
I’ll have no drooling witnessery
proving late that reflexes
at the knee are indeed intact.
No yuletide destruction
of sacrificial paraffinic forms –
handheld or melting under flying buttresses,
No surplus offerings for rites of spring
nor collected signatures
to urge career-driven, time-stamped civil servants:
The greatest reapers of all –
made in our own image
of prodigious flaw
and shortcomings lauded in shows of sponsored reality.