[Poem] Somme


No days
on the Somme-days
by the river, fresh
with the run of
cold-cat blue-hat beige
plays in the grass, snubs
and smokes, your groin
tickles the sky as you spread
you palm open against

Hear, you’re hard,
rigid with nerves a cough
of anticipation
cackles on the cob of red
fruit, a lozenge, the iron
treads your mouth
and forms a skein
about your implements.
Wait for night to confirm
the days-dead, you limp
– nay, lay and drag
yourself a pity.

Fuck you’s carved
into warped wood, mouthed
with burns and shaken
by the muscles beneath
your bed, the springs release
a grace of neuro
toxin chemi-kazi’s clawing
for the gun-tongue below
the pillows, rich
with the green, red
and yellow frothing
of the fluids running
down the river
of 1916.


© Hayden Westfield-Bell, 2013


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