I know, I know. POETRY (even political) is DEAD. but, I'm not.
from.....
THE CHRONICLES OF BOSH:
A Fictitious History of the Occupancy of Prince George, Part the First.(a work in progress)
(Mister and Missus Bosh react to the Peterson verdict)
Mister Bosh hears the cheers
Missus Bosh, they're crying for his death!
Should I ask? Insist? Should I pull the switch?
Live on the TV. Death.
You could stitch up a quick hood.("Executioner In Chief" over the pocket, perhaps?)
Nothing too pointy though. Or, a mask?Missus Bosh suffers a historical shudder.
Her foot twitches towards the shade of a brake.
Cautious cranberries, Mister Bosh!
You're not in Texas anymore.
And there are multitudes awaiting your freedoms.Certainly not news, drones and bleats, though muted.
A death sentence will not kill the story. No, not
While the story still kills the story of the mounting deaths.
Not while the story still kills the story of the unimaginable maiming...
Were his victims more cruelly killed
Than our soldiers sacrificed to folly?
Were his victims more cruelly killed
Than the murdered city of Fallujah?
Why are the soldiers sacrificed to folly
Hidden from view, their names, their number feared?
Why are the dead in the murdered city of Fallujah
Willfully ignored? Had they been blond perhaps...
Mister Bosh fingers through his favorite executions,
Just a bit lasciviously. (He knows all the names!)
Humming Cole Porter's "You're The Top."
Now you're dead, and I pulled the lever.
Now you're dead, aren't I deadly clever?
Missus Bosh has a nicotine pang.
And almost, almost, feels guilty about it.