Cruel nature, why do you inconvenience me,
with the stripes on the tarmac interrupted horizontally
by the lame death of the dark dog striped white from snout to crown
Another casualty to edge around.
For it is impermissibly crucial to keep clear
the crux of the crucible,
there is not room for blossom or bees.
And how the dim glow through fumes is blocked by these insufferable trees,
three generations gathered conkers from,
soon they scatter not even a legacy of red leaves
But the scar on the pavement
Cookie cut
a new patch of weeds.
It’s said we came book bound to cultivate the unholy earth
trim the hedgerows, keep the garden clear of crows.
Keep the skyline hardnosed, snagging smog on balconies hung with grey worn washing and the rebel songs from wars not won.
Marked only as wars by casualty.
This is the black smoke on which we rose
Strapped to a cross of industry
On desecrated pitches the men come to split the hares, pick the battles
spill blood and consecrate each squeal slitting the gullet of the swine,
‘Tisn’t cruelty, tis only cattle. Sure death will get us all in time?’
Aye suffering, that saintly maturity with which we dole out pain,
Bear our jaws on the bones of all that gets in our way.
Deontological to the profane, as we strip
And rip, slit and maul
and our eyes grow dimmer
so the red on our hands no longer appalls
This is God’s work. We are Gods work.
Or so they say.
It is only right.
The world is meant to be this way.
Sionnachaí 