No Fire You Say

No fire you say, the rage has burned and
gone – ameliorated in plastic phrases;
‘tis condemnation worse than being cursed
in barren words by empty balls. He feels
the same; still passionate – a slave to urges
tall and menacing, to wrath that hovers in a
pall of man’s insensate inhumanity. Call me
what you will, he says, these days I bleed
internally. The bloody mess you left won’t
ease my agonies; at every death I die again.

You’ve eased a Genie’s flask its cork and evil
flows as heady wine, one glass begets another
glass and talk excites but nothing breaks the
spell that’s cast by swine exploiting other swine –
and evil calls within stone walls and minarets
and catacombs and sanctuaries and hallowed
halls and parliaments. But you don’t hear or
see a menace there as yet. While in the market
she, an innocent eternally, blows herself to
smithereens and kills another’s dying dreams.

No rage you say, how can you rage at certain
death? It is a sanctuary – all Worldly cares are
shuffled off to wear another carapace, another
face, another tongue. But when you’re dead
you cannot rise to live and love and lie again.
I rage – oh yes I rage, so please do be assured
of that; these days I stay off centre stage, too
blasé with base intrigue, menacing for all but
weak effete – venting super-egos in despair,
their footprint leaves no room for me.
© 15 February 2008, I. D. Carswell