Poems Page 5


Sad presentiments of what must come to be -
On my knees - behind me nightmares dwell -
I lead the congregations of the dead who pray
On death's cold rim, the lucid edge of hell

I spread my hands to gather in the ghosts
That are to come - I see them in the dark,
Draft appearing outlines of disfigured hosts,
The savage soldiers and their butcher work

In darkness, then by tallow candlelight
I see, have seen, and will see more again
Because my eyes like Paul's achieve new sight -
I also hear the snapping of the guns

Like fingers of a lord who beckons slaves
And then by magic servants digs their graves

Back to Index


An abattoir of war, this stunted oak -
Deeds against the dead in master strokes,
Carcasses and legs and private parts
Hung above the ground as butcher's arts

Show them to the sky and to the earth -
Show them what a renegade is worth,
Winter is the slaughter of the leaves:
Cowardice the sacrament of thieves

Also to ourselves we will confess
Silently the slash of our distress,
How by this we pacify the rear,
How by this we amputate our fear

Here the unbelievers are the priests,
Slaughter is the office of the beast

Back to Index


Suckers when the dead are slain
With leather wings and faces plain
As clerks and lawyers, men of parts,
Mount their chests and suck on hearts

Who's the corpse - your father, son?
There's enough for everyone -
Human heads and heads of owls
Even faces veiled by cowls

Membranes stretched along their ribs
They purse their mouths like steel-tipped nibs
And draw warm ink from auricles
Flaccid veins and ventricles

Ink they spew to write accounts,
Ink ingested through their snouts -
Hear the dry unholy flap,
The chafing sound when they fold up

Human heads and bodies squat
They circle at the sound of shots

Back to Index

Previous Page
© 2004 Pavel Chichikov                                                                                               Designed by Plusweb Designs