She whispered with a silent symphony as in solitude. The piece indecently rhymed to prove a point unknown - Of belonging, and beatitude, and an untamed soulfulness. My innocent spirit struck ablaze with a thoughtfully eternal flame. Her doll eyes, pale with a seemingly clear whiteness - Of beauty, and of purity, and of heathen health, Bribed my ignorant heart with a big sum of worthless treasure To prescript my dreams, and also my wet dreams. I succumbed with a lot of faith And let her in, Then out, But left me inside-out With a banquet, But of thorns!
The guards cane echoes on the Limestone slab 10 inch wall between ‘em like the white in the flag Or the grey in a face watching its last chance Click its heels and take leave of the present tense Taking the GPO’ll make you no friends In a long queue of mothers with letters for France Their boys fight for them but they’ll die for the tans And homogeneous headstones will be their thanks As the echo stalks the hall, he hauls a heavy pen Along his last love letter to ms houlihan Remember the fallen but beware the risen men Those who would take what you would not lend
The guards keep the misery one step ahead Of the slums where they’d rather be flogged and fed Than to rot in the sheets of a free mans bed Where the weak of spirit would rob the bridle Off a G-mans horse for a night inside-I’ll Wager his wellingtons filled with **** At the post on the bugle and the cannon’s hiss But he stood for us and Wolfe tone would attest It’s not what was won but how it’s spun to the kids And so the man forges a legacy from lead As redemptive light pats him on the head “Now fold that letter and spruce those threads There’ll be time for heroes once the heroes are dead” So he made his peace, whispered under his breath “For each man dropped, there’ll be 10 in their stead Our suffering is but the unleavened bread” And took one in the back for each turned head
The firing squad said he barely bled
He lived for The Passion and he died for the plot For the political prisoners in the dock, For the rogues in vagabondage on his block And the scapulars hidden in their socks For those who threw fruit at the butcher’s block And the native tongue their young forgot His beloved martyrs who died by the drop And the shovelled-up actors that followed him off
George lies in the dark of his room, a slit of light from the moon squeezes through the gap of the curtains and makes a streak onto the floor and the wall by his bed. He hears gunshot and explosions, hears men's moans from No-Man's Land, senses rats run along the trench.
His hands shake, his eyes stare.
By the window fast asleep a nurse sits unaware of the wars inside George's head as he lies in bed. He watches as Grimes sits against the trench wall, smoking a cigarette, then stands up and goes to the steps, and looks over the top; smoke from his cigarette floating about his head; a whine, splat and Grimes falls back dead.
Georges stares and mumbles.
Grimes lies staring into the blackness as if an answer is there.
George gets out of bed, walks to the wall to tend to Grimes.
The chair by the wall where the nurse's coat lies stands still.
George talks to the coat, talks to Grimes. The coat is silent and unmoving like one dead.
George sees Grimes lying there in his broken mind and head.
AN OFFICER HOME FROM THE WAR FRONT WITH SHELL-SHOCK IN 1916.