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Mar 2013

War garbles a tune, spits up


Bodies, empty pits

of eyes and entrails

break like a birch branch.

White waste flits down like snow.

An archetype, copied, laboured forever

melts into a meticulous concoction.

The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing

drunken curtains over the survivor soul.

The crow is a warrior,

with his black machine gun eyes.


God coughs, the countryside,

elegiac to start

hacks with a demon.

The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab.

It's all a waste of white ash.
Jonny Bolduc
Written by
Jonny Bolduc  Halifax
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