rockets, the whistle & drone
chill morning’s zombied air
& perhaps i’m wondering why
as grief covets the grasp of resolve
why more things can’t be possible
why all tomorrows must end

for certain i once was not
dread certain i’ll be not again
but how many days shall pass between
between crib & the yawning earth
for to compose nullifidian hymns
for to soothe in the ghast of dawn

& mainly they drink their own tears
vainly they think their pious fictions
plainly i’ll not be fooled so again
by the quiver of strongmen in bunkers
by gormless rumours of peace
by hope or scripture or fairness or whim

why all tomorrows must end
round & round in war’s grave spin
for to soothe in the ghast of dawn
& the immurement of being
by hope or scripture or fairness or whim
we inhumane vie for suffering

by TONY SINGLE
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