a dash of mustard gas
hardly whets the appetite -
pesticides to man and beast
He much preferred
the older clashes, better
those soft souls, brain-
bashed by maul,
the flashes of steel sword
were cutlery passing to
and through rind
But we are here, we are now.
With heaps on the field
left to cook in June sun.
chunks of lieutenant
like the slow yellowing
of jasmine, the sweetness
turns and turns, bringing
over a host of hovering
angels.
They fuck in the nose
of a corporal, hanging
up on a wire. They make
the nasal passage
their headquarters.
Red spider sets up
his camp and lays back.
Again they have turned
The tables, laid the cloth.
This death-ground
his dinner plate
