Descent Into The War Machine

The Larkspur Horne

I watch him carry on into the tunnel dark,
with barefoot bravery and flashings of spooks
while hungry patriarchs fled as fires into the sun to dream
their dreams of fistfuls, those nightmarish greenbacks.

I watch him head on into the tunnel dark
beseeching the blowhard’s handiwork,
whilst trampling sons and daughters into dirt like druggy hounds
wailing wailings coated by frothing sweat.

I watch him carry on, into the hopeless, tunneling dark,
banking against such spouting dragons of blistering bites,
lizards bestowing spilling carnage heaters that bang bloodily
at his door with claw and fang and fight!

I watch him carry on, and O’! how the tunnel is dark!
Hurling and howling in whirligigs of bedlam, singing,
what little lungs remaining; phobias contorting
him at night, jerking him in his horrendous ghastly slumber!

I watch him carry on into the tunnel dark:
in shroud, in nudity, in numberless number,

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