. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Saturday, December 1, 2012

The Red Planet

Cynical thoughts on the future of my species...

Pray for me, He told her,
Holding her pale hands against his lips, Outside the broken stained glass windows were stained
rocks red with the blood of ten thousand times ten, Red ran from smoking holes in suits of armor lifting sour pistol smoke up towards the red sun, Dying cries of warrior boys calling screaming for far-away mothers they would never see again,
Trying to stuff their guts back into the cavernous spaces of their spilling stomachs,
Their hands stained the color of bile - orange, yellow, red, In a canyon so far from home so many came to die, Some swore unquestioned allegiance to the Black King and followed him across the stars to fall in droves like
the waves that once broke over that red sand, Some gave their oath to the Red King and with calls to arms raised their banner high over Olympus Mons where
man first trespassed upon their soil by the ignorant ramblings of blind robots, Where so many million years before clear water once ran through rivulets of the arroyos the red water of life now
revisited those meandering tracks, In thick trickles it abandoned the dying bodies of all manner of creatures alike,
In death mankind found in himself a close kin to that race of thin-fingered astral pilgrims, Soldiers from both fronts slept one last sleep and gave up their spirits to wander the infinite cosmos, Still, there was blood yet shed, In the skies above more pale-faced legionnaires would soon descend, Like insect parasites they disgorged from their hulking warships hungry to replicate, Hungry to infect with the diseases of famine and decay, They arrived once a strange new friend, Now they became a pest, When the landing pads of their bollard copper beasts gluttonous with men touched the red killing sands they would meet yet again, For in the caves below cities were burning, In the caves the war trumpet echoed, In the caves the hearts of the people ran red with revenge, In the caves they marched, Past the stone idols and the broken sailing vessels that took them from star to star, Past the bodies of dead grey children whose carbon they would recycle into oxygen, Past the empty citadels where man once stood to preach a false peace, Past the artificial lights and the war chests and the caged beasts, They rallied to the last red soldier, Tall green-skinned space men who mapped the heavens long before mankind had left his crib, Helmets of heavy caliginous eyes, Hollow bones, Long limbs of tight muscles and fleet of foot, To reclaim their home, Take back their planet stolen, She pulled her hands away from his, Fingered the plastic black cross that hung above her pale breasts, Her black cloak fell around her, The hooded cowl framed her small oval face, Powdered cheeks and thin lips, Black moist eyes, His battle axe lay propped against a carving of their Christ, The church lay in ruins, A dim and distant sun splashed multi-colored scenes of religious ecstasy on the splintered pews, The statue burned black from a fire recently subdued, The air stank, He did not move, She reached out to touch his head where the black helmet pushed into his temples and left deep marks there in his skin, His hair a pelt of black mane mangled by sweat and the dirt of a thousand nights, His knees bent and the memory of that metallic armor on the stone when he fell there before her still resounding in her skull, His black cape like folded wings across his back displaying in vivid spectacle the pennon of the people he fought for, The black war eagle holding in its talons the spear and the crown, His skin was warm, His blood beat against her fingertips through the thin veil of his flesh, He watched her face as she traced the line of his jaw with her other hand, Slender hand, Brittle and translucent, A thing of fine glass against the coarse black beard that sat shallow on his cheeks, In the distance a thunder fell in a land where clouds were faint, The drums of a coming nation, The ground moved and the church walls groaned, The Black King never left her eyes, Death marched in the red canyon towards them, What is it that you want, She asked, His answer was quiet but fierce, For there was time yet left for madness, As he stood, He said, I want everything. 11.2012

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