Values

Another poem.

 

Values.

What rewards could be hoped for in this world without values,

save those established by blood, and long-beards,

the pixelated imprecision of rollicking bombs;

or the hacksaw, the leather badge and gun

of the gentleman scholar?

Yes, they are old souls; these jilted lovers 

of the Beloved, these once-great men

who grunt and groan and hack their way

to systems of value, constructing crosses and statuettes

over hundreds of life-lines; beards stained by the darkness,

into which they wade, over-brave, again and again.

They are the soldiers, Legion; they are the strong-arm

of the iron Imam, who winks out at them

from over the moon.

And why not kill? They have long ago gone beyond death.

But you should never believe them

when they say they simply do their duty. In Hell these are the clowns

who would be happy

and say they circumambulate her, the “multifoliate rose”;

who would taste her lips

in rivers of searing heat, and melting wax-flesh.

Never believe them.

They passed by her left side,

she gave them her coldest shoulder

since forever: a long, long time ago.