Upon Corilanus ashes they dine

The man of cuts  half healed

Raged  against  himself again.

His pride  is in his  isolation

While  time honour and family

Whom rest in a position of

                                          partition

Tersly welcome him  dislocated .

In a vanity of unwelcome  times

That border upon unrested interest;

Where  the many –few-   part bow the knee

Through  viscous viscous

Unwelcome  thoughts;

Revealed  in tallow faced  callous  smirks.

 

Battles were  his triumph

Though  people  were not his  cause

And those bit wounds  of his  are  so

Scabby;  rancid with  wet  pus

Soiled enough  for  us  to morn him.

But  its  power  that fucks him.

Power intoxicating

Power  stimulating

Vile power abhorrent

Bloody vile incinerating

That bought  bright blight searing

And then –in a word- death.

For there  existed  no time

Or words  for mourning

There was only …war…

And his broken body

That writhes  tired

Upon a martyrs field

Of volcian  compromise.

 

The masses loved  him

Then the masses  hated him

In a persuasion of tribune rhetoric

That was ruptured  from open mouths

 Full of “might”  wants needs and bigotry.

It led to a mass insanity:

A rejection of the man  who  bathed

In his  rejections  adoration.

 

And  while the tribunes  dines

The ten sheep pen  celebrity

And those 24 military bowed behinds

 You  sought  the Volcians

As a wild man: an emissary.

For a tribulation of vengeance

Because  of political  arrogance

And a vain need  for  acceptance

Hidden behind that hard Roman pride.

But  you shaped your will

And despite  your reluctance

You took a stand for  peace

In a time  of war.

 Then they named you Proclaimed you

In  a war fought  for others gain

But they  hated you  enough  to kill you

A sacrifice  at the doors of  your loathed temple:

The  alleys  of the  peoples  streets .

An Ironic  removal

In a conflict of rumours

Where little was won at such terrible  cost.

 

Oh how he  was opaque.

Not giving away his thoughts

To the inventoried  audience

Save  through snapped  commands

From snarled  wolf lips .

How like a vain  God  he strode

And like a  true leader he  fell

By  a traitors  hand.

It  forces surface thoughts.

Are we  monster

Are we soul?

Are  we one

Are we whole?

Should we want you on our throne?

Would  you feed us

Or would you gaze upon volumous

With  Oedipus  eyes instead?

Extolling her virtue  of canny  coin

Through  cunny  obligation?

Would  YOU watch

As  troops of police

Bashed our brains?

And would you laugh

As   our cadavers piled up:

A burning  corps of corpses

For a handful of dry dirty   grain.

Or would  yoou fly like a butterfly of night

Whose ravens  wings

Slap the  air

To rise above the rest

To  wear  as your thick  creast

Of political power

An unwanted crown of thorns

Buried deep in your soft scalp.

And while  you stand  upon your acceptance

You plummet  like  Lucifers

Or  Icarus  from sol’s  flame incarnate.

 

Oh we  are but dust

And to dust we will return

From chaos onto chaos into chaos

We  thrive  and  fly in soft  skies

But from an argument  we are burnt

In flames  of hope

Only to be gathered in ashes

Of his  and our separate reality

A toxic incarnation of hibernation

Of primal power

Shown as it always  is

In the  cracking soft thud

Of a stone  against the bone

Of a soft skull.

 To be  followed by that  hollow laugh

That bellows

Within the throats  of beasts as they dine

Until their  sup is done.

 

© adh 2015