We hung the bastard by his thumbs
strapped lead to his chicken legs
stretched him till he snapped and told us
that he'd gutted his wife
sugared and ate her
Such things are not uncommon now
They tied Ratcliff to a tree
the squaws lit a fire between his thighs
and carved his flesh with mussel shells
fried it, fed it to their dogs
They of course weren't starving
they did it for fun
Revenge?
This hunger
this pestilence
this plague of hostiles
Hubris?
Are we punished then for daring something new?
The Old World is tired, look at it
wheezing by on cruthches, excreting corruption
So what that we freeze (did I mention that)
almost naked, firewood long gone
or that we now feast on our own
the weak, the maimed, the discontents
So what that the savages fear us, loath us
seize and torture us
if we are foolish and leave the pallisade
where we hang the twitching bodies
of all who give up hope
.
Adding your comment:
Your writings take us down some seldom explored pathways.
