Fault line

(Our Horde's Prayer)

by T.P. Wilkinson / April 30th, 2017

When we were children
We used to stare
While the static screen
And the national air
Ended the day
Where seeing far
Still could not spy
The Plain of Jars
Awaiting strained
The solar glare
We missed Mekong
Bombs
Bursting in air
Sucking out lungs
Searing smiles
forests of chimneys
Peasantless farms
Long-noses vile
Hermits once their kingdom
Denied
Hudson Harbor tested
Their slant-eyes to fry.
Oh memory dear
Oh memory dear
Save us from our vicious
Selves
Save us with our drunken stupor
Save us with our bloated wives
Save us who worship death by day
Save us please, oh CIA
With war unending
And to date
Our will unbending
And irate
Give us this day our drug
Of choice
Give them who rule
Their nth Rolls Royce
So we may still forget this day
All those whom for our drugs
We slay
Those drugs
That bless
That grease our hate
Whilst we slither
‘Cross our Teutonic plate.

T.P. Wilkinson, Dr. rer. pol. writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..

This article was posted on Sunday, April 30th, 2017 at 8:04am and is filed under Poetry.