by Michael Brett | Mar 31, 2011 | Poetry
Barbed wire is the Esperanto of repulsion: A written language of jags and scribble. It is a ribbon of the Underworld, An Ariadne’s cord, leading Through war’s wreckage, its hovels And palaces. Its songs, its hum Stalk in gloomy triumph through hospital...
by Michael Brett | Mar 29, 2011 | Poetry
They buried Gunner Frost beside the church Where all the Frosts had always lain In their high tide marks of quiet lives, But Gunner Frost was not the same: Where giant skies meet giant hills Gunner Frost was quietly killed. Yet part of that far land Will Gunner Frost...
by Michael Brett | Mar 27, 2011 | Poetry
Bombs can swim Like jellyfish, and squeeze Precisely: into churches, Books and airport clothes shops Where small silences live in thimbles And cuff link boxes. The giant tortoise silences Live in palace squares Where kings and presidents Inspect their troops, And wave...
by Michael Brett | Mar 27, 2011 | Poetry
Tomorrow, the Lord of Life and Death Will again be keeper of the public latrines, But today, with stone eyes and a stone hand, I salute him. I knew him before he was powerful. I put money in his pockets and food in his mouth. For him, I ordered the dead to canvas the...
by Michael Brett | Mar 27, 2011 | Poetry
Of course, there are three kinds: There are the cheery young ones, up at the bar: Buying you beers, Showing you pictures of their families. Then, the pomegranate men in an armoured column: Its metal back flexing like a centipede, Its helicopter whiskers, its burr of...
