Look at you, all dressed up pretty
spit polish shoes, iron pressed hair
ribbons and medals
and gold topped buttons
behind a perspex frame –
can you be a weapon for change ?
Metal birds map the skies
controlled by desk execs,
in starchy shirts, with land -grab eyes
chimp-hands clapping at every missile fired.
On sunken ground, a bank of thickening red gravy
sun bubbles heating
meat and muscle;
spilling guts, scabbing brown –
a trophonian wilderness,
heated terror on misshapen iron…
down down dicks in the dirt
shooting fish ‘till it hurts
draped across a body bag
a ten gun salute
a valley of tears
and a white gloved handshake
is all that remains.
Illustration: Elena Caldera