The Atrocity Exhibition (Love and Napalm)

He is haunted by the naked
child who runs towards him,
arms outstretched, as if into his
pedophile embrace - but
the flesh is melting from her back
and she is screaming out
in terror, not in pain, because
her nerve-ends are destroyed.

He sees the mythic cavalcade:
the man whose brains are blown
into his young wife's tailored lap.
The whole world is widowed,
he might think, as anchor-men weep
to show an endless loop
of newsreel in black and white blur
motion, while shots ring out.

He watches Charlie's audition
for the Monkees. He plays
Helter Skelter with the lyrics
daubed in blood, body warm,
upon the walls. A swastika
carved into his forehead
is not Nazi, but a symbol
from the Book of the Dead.

He witnesses the Messiah
to the Age of Science
as a complex of circumstance.
He stands with Billy in
a business suit, with Martin on
his march; teaches Jimi
how to jam and leaves his footprints
on the Moon, next to Neil.

He shades his eyes against crosses
burning on suburban
lawns, as good ole boys in white frocks
host a necktie party
for their neighbours. How them niggers
love to dance, with their feet
up off the ground. Lord ha' mercy
on them minstrels on TV.

He tries not to stare at children
born without arms and legs
because their mothers took a drug
to ease morning sickness
and gave birth to mutants. Unlike
the genre grotesques
in films, they are not telepaths
or psychopaths; just kids.

He deciphers the languages
of logoes, the subtle
semaphore of traffic signals,
the Delphic ad displays.
He is shaman-psychologist
at a time of portents,
under a Damoclean bomb,
when trauma is high art.

He writes about the world, as if
delusion is the one
sane thought to hold. With too many
sins for a singular
Saviour, he has a library
of secular Bibles
from which to choose his faith. No truth
can withstand the future.