The walking dead slumber with deadly aim
and let sleeping dogs die,
Mongrels
heat anger in forges of spiteful flame,
Corpses see and hear more
than these walking sightless, tongueless, earless
lifeless poor,
When shall these sleepers awake?

The Bonfire had been piled high,
Almost reaching the cold abode of Mars,
The fear to light it was replaced by
recklessness as the season rolled on.

The stage was set and the audience of
Porcupines and hawks were eager, impatient
for the peaceful Overture to expire
and the deadly Act to commence.

Young Spring was delivered from the womb
and cried for nourishment
when,
Suddenly,
The last bars of the Overture faded into obscurity
and
“The Unholy Holy Crusade”
was ignited upon the starry stage.

The embers of Autumn burst into lashings of blame’s flames
and into forgetful numb snow did the show go.

The porcupines raised high their itchy spikes
to cast their vote of united damnation
while the crowds outside the theatre
cheered the unseen and unheard.

Earth herself
trembled beneath the raw fury of the
Satanic Play,
The volcanic eruption of unnatural hatred threatened
to torch the outer reaches of Mars.

This Bonfire of passionate poison
showered upon the naked body of Truth,
First it gagged and then it bagged Dad,
Mum’s screaming lungs were ****** out,
Her ears were drummed
while her lovely eyes sprouted wings
and flew out from their socket cages,
Her seductive legs snapped away
from the weight of her body
and waltzed headlong into the vaporised night,
Her faithful Left arm stayed to comfort her
but the Right one was yanked away and eloped with a
hot man-made
mushroom cloud that blotted the heavens,
The people were hugging loved ones tightly as they scattered
in the winds of bombastic devastation.

Moonlight dripping from the eyes of a restless red Moon,
Lone witness to the uncivilised crime.

The stork brought a newly born Life
wrapped in the soft garments of innocence,
He held the precious Life in his beak carefully,
caringly, lovingly,
On Bonfire Night he delivered the package to
a young ****** bride,
When the present was unwrapped
warm flames kissed the young baby inside,
A newly born Life arrived,
She was wrapped in soft and sinless rags,
She was carefully caressed,
Lovingly fed,
On Bonfire Night was this desert princess born
to a young untarnished bride,
Three storm soldiers arrived bearing candy,
When the sweet was unwrapped
warm flames burst out to kiss the young baby’s insides,

“Aargh!”

“Aargh!”

Silence...

Death plucks another trophy from the garden of Life.

The broken, charred fingers of the child
clutch the peeled hand of the unborn mother,
The earth of the child has shattered,
Her globe is no more,
Her remains are strewn across the industrial carnage
of the cold Spring.

An act of war against Mars,
“O, sacrilege!
Man, thou dost concoct evil.
Vagabond, thinkest thou superior?
I shalt shackle thee yet
to the accursed gates of Hades!”

The first Act ends,
The safety curtains drawn
and the theatre of blood explodes with applause,
The hawks shout out at the top of their wheezy lungs,
“*******,
it was like the Fourth of July celebrations!
Wow, man!
The sky was full of stars!
Stars, our stars!”

There is a lull between the next Act,
The walking dead gather up the sticks
for the next Bonfire Night,
Windows on the world continue to
drivel and stir the steaming early evening news,
Invisible men pick at the brains
of the sleeping,
This race is the supreme master of
exchanging insanity for black diamonds.

Beware you guy,
They are sipping the priceless grey treasure
that is your birthright,
It will be
with the theft of your precious
jewel that will finance
another glorious victorious production of
The Bonfire Night,
This time, perhaps, in
stunning Summer.

Remember,
Remember,
Don’t you ever forget
the
Filth
of
November.



©Rangzeb Hussain