No Repentance

Steve Ely

The bayonet tip wouldn’t bite at first.
Scraped, slid off, like his vest was made
of mithril. Lothlorien, Gonvilnd Keys.
A gift from the Lady, or Arron Banks.
Barings Bank. The plunderous karats
of Antwerpus Loup. The bayonet tip
wunt bite in the thick-seamed ephod,
its armour of urin and bummin. Deep
bruzing, dribling facets. Sum wailing:
Paedo/haemo-philiac sadness. Bayonet
tip at bay, tight-mesh kevlar whalebone
corset. Waling. Rifle butt or handy rock
by hand. Cracked crabshell, the bright
blood oh the bright and black bright
blood. Phil Leotardo’s pancaked dome:
CROCK. Spill it – dimunz, perlz, Old
English Spangles. Frayed linen tricklin
rubies: names stitched into underpants
unravel – Willum, Judd, Alexey, Blud.
Clubbin ducklins with Garrard & Flack:
that kind of thing, but for the greater good.
Mess up the wall and over the concrete
floor: spatter of sapphires and scattring
blue-tongued skinks. Chromosomes
uncrowned, crowned kids rinsed in blood
as Blood. The boy died at my pleasure,
like a rabbit retrieved to hand or a ball-
bellied Sudanese refugee: eyes glazing
over, rib-cage ever so slightly lifting STOP
won’t somebody think of the children?