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THE ARTIST MAKES A STRANGE WAR


 

by Sean Meehan

December 29, 2001

HE IS A SCULPTER, A DANCER, A PRIZE FIGHTER
ENCAPSULATED IN THE MISTS OF FAR RIDGES
FERRIED BY THE WIND
TO THE HARSH HALLOW PLACE
GLACIAL ALONENESS
THE KIND A DYING SOLDIER KNOWS.

IN TANTRUMS OF FLESH SLUNG IN WITH
DRAGON'S TEETH, DEVIL'S TEETH, SHIVA'S TEETH, WOLF'S TEETH
GOD SQUATTING ON THE EARTH TO SHIT
THE ARTIST MAKES THE WORLD IN HIS OWN IMAGE
BREIFLY, UNLASTING.
HE DRAWS A SLENDER BLOODY LINE
EVEN HIS STEEL SPIKES DECAY IN THE SNOW
OR GET GROUND DOWN TO DIRT
BY GRANITE SPIT.

WITH HAIR LIKE SMOKE
SILVER POCKET FLASK
HE CAN NO LONGER COUNT
HIS DEAD FRIENDS
WITH ONLY TWO HANDS

AFTER THE COLD HAS TAKEN EVERYTHING
EVEN THOUGHT
THE ARTIST MAKES A STRANGE WAR
THE WEAK WOULD NEVER PRAY FOR THIS BLESSING.

SEAN MEEHAN 12/10/99

FOR MARK TWIGHT



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