Bragging Rights

I am Somme, battlefield
in France, beset by pleas
of overburdened souls,
choked by the smoke of gunfire,
encumbered by the dead
and the dying,
this mad circus of border dispute,
of ethnic and cultural
bias, of downright loathing.
I am an artless place of varying
death, reeling from the
mob-desperate brutish throng
intruding forthwith.
Long are the murderous days,
the birth of the hair-brain,
the swing and slash
of  warfare’s distinction.
Speak upon my broad expanse
as if slaughter is boredom,
as if time will not move
without  flesh being pierced,
without bone being shattered .
Behold the explosions!  Watch
as pieces of me arc into the air!
Flank upon my western front 
like wolves and jackals
hungry for meat, seething need,
exalting the throne
of territoriality, treading
for a cause this alliance 
of maim,
this penchant to soak my loins
with red from all men.
Squabble upon me with guns
and grenades and bayonets keen
to lance, and I shall drink
the life-blood of the young,
and watch faces grow pale
in this vainglorious march
limiting life.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
7-2-16