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

This entry was posted on in homepage and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Peaceful, not at peace

    1. […] Peaceful, not at peace ← in The Fortnight Review […]

      Pingback by covid-19 poem in The International Times – separating the self from the senses on 8 August, 2020 at 1:08 am

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.