Split Atoms and Broken Suns
should we celebrate our mastery of the word,
its perfect physics syntaxed to explode,
assault all lands disdainful of our generous intellect?
its plutonium whips daily strip this earth raw,
dryly disclaim each bonded ego’s cry
to star in their own fiction, be fed with awe.
every sun day our sullen orchids - finely crisper’d - bloom
unhygienic knives; their smoking plume
splicing every unambitious whine,
as we try to disguise our own deficient past
beneath the magnificent rising crowns of dust –
war prosecuted, we monger, speeds progress into our peace,
and we forge on, pretending our atomic fruits will green,
create from our toxic wastelands an eden whole again.
but can we mask the sharpness of these decaying bones -
flesh flayed, souls unwinged, splayed
and etched into the paving stones,
terrified monuments we attempt to hide
as tourist traps, guiding, scrabbling past, in unseasonal waves,
the accusing intransigence of their unnamed graves -
flagged scurrilous sods, heavy anchors to our prospects
of realising Hegel’s high bench of success?
this is no place for bone, authentic bone,
the unfleshed rags of dust too proud to weep
for treads heavy on the earth a devilled heel,
its tongue shrieking blood and empty jugs,
and the planes of pure flesh, a corpse of faith,
peeled luminous in the atom’s rage
linger fading in its dying fields, afraid to sleep
afraid to die thinking another fire awaits.
there will be no ships real or imagined
to heal our abortions, this shrieking earth:
we nurture death howling in its leash
thinking we can shroud its prospects closed in our fists.
only nature’s spring, reborn untamed, can unleash
its womb’s green soap to wash clean, shatter
our unscrupulous fiction, pluck our myths
down to the honest bone and make us real.