Robert Sheppard

The war had ended; it had not ended

Killing Boxes 8-10


no distant figure cuts diagonals across
the hot war which fleshed this near
scorched field they thrive on threat
citizens perfectly informed of 'trouble
ahead' drift under the flickering syntax
of a virtual journey rolled along
disconnected whorls of mud-ruts
easy arrest made permanent sacrifice
is thrust upon them their own juices
drug them across the defrosting stubble
of last year's crop        no grass
grows through these scattered flints

7th February 2003


carpets woven with jargon surrender
monkey ground level realism pumps
a Kalashinikov before the gold cupola
a tight wrinkled lip of double-stitch

every night you fall asleep invaded
by this market target couch drill

an embedded journo pillowed on gas
buys a free full monster with an
empty promise your night vision
goggles catch the first line of his
collateral excised scribble 'muscling

in on targets...'
struggling with his war
poem the dark god of his sonnets
freeze framed death tools downed

29 March 2003


self emptive victims shimmy to
the umbrella skeleton weepings
of Mars
              'regret' the ancient
wheeled ordure spilling sewage spice
where they gnaw gnats' gristle
on a rubbished ground plan

sex down the tar on sparrows before
a dodgy House
                         law games shake
depleted prayers to your stump
the gazelle's eyes have it
clearly somebody’s brother's
missing in a ghazal of mass ifs

the direct cost of life in a hit
single radio vomit over reach
over Babel's Tower blowing the
red caps scorches a French
               a horlicks of humans
and freedom fries

June 27th 2003


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