Posted by in Blog, Poems on Aug 11, 2013

What fits the hand so snugly,

so convincingly, as a gun?

The gun exalts you.


You become a messenger,

a minor angel, of a sort.

And it was, I insist, necessary.


The soil was barren, sour;

nothing would grow in these scorched furrows.

Excited by the devastation,


I tore her clothes, beat,

scratched, bit, kicked.

She fought, but her flesh


leaped out to receive me:

and at last, penetration.

She was wet in spite of herself,


wet in self-defence.

Her nails dug long

lace-edged trenches in my back.


Afterwards I noticed the trees

were all sooty splinters;

even the crows had left


for the battlefields, probably.

And so my index finger bent

round the trigger, the beckoning gesture,


and so was sown the salt of my passion

to enrich the soil of this sad land,

that I love intensely as an angel.