Peaceful, not at peace

The roads downed tools at bloody last;
the proletariat. For permissible exercise,
the arm of a gun is held cocked
at sunrise to kill crow in short black.

I smoke locked down in maps: I bring
two one for us both. The refuse is in case
of detonation and a fuse is lit
so my fever hits whilst asleep.

Every corpse amounts to an age and
underlying illness. 50 million volts:
do not enter, or touch your face.

 

 


Luke Emmett
Picture by Rupert Loydell


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  1. Pingback: covid-19 poem in The International Times – separating the self from the senses

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