Ethan

Malvern Hills in June

 

This little cabin and your long nose make me feel at home

Among the crumbling beams, white but blue.

 

On this chair lies the greycoat, forgotten like the red before him,

Rolled and wrinkled by star-speckled plows, button thieves, grave diggers.

 

Is this civility, you ask? 

Desecrating thoughts fall upon the field like white snowy bombs 

As ants flee Lee with fear and terriers suck reddened banners clean.

 

Hands thrust from beneath bloody green carpets, 

Wrapping their tendrils round passerby-ankles,

Dragging souls down to fiery heaven, sweetly delicious.

 

Mad, mad, mad they are.

Slice their skulls and take their thoughts.

Cleanse them in the Robert Lethe!

 

Thank you, Lynchburg.

Peace, peace; debt and peace. 

The babies cry for peace, I tell you.

 

Their fathers gone,

The war un-won,

Until the sleeping devils come.

 

 



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