by James O’Brien
The low loaders were busy,
Around the time of ceasefire.
Shifting carnage machines,
To follow a map to your Hell.
There’s a mad lady over there,
Who has the blue prints for Gaza,
In her deathly claws,
Planning the new builds.
It’s already a gallows place,
The JCBs stand like the stork,
The storks can live on anything,
Brother, do you remember that grove,
Where you found a mosaic?
When JCB stuck the earth,
Struck your child, your wife,
As she weeps Kathe Kollwitz style.
As the diggers opened that portal,
It suppurates out to that bit of land,
It’s like the dust in the Grove,
That was a cinema, this is not a film,
Exterminator comes in yellow
Liquidation isn’t an option,
The view doesn’t get any better,
Said a drunk man, terrified in ale.
Look to those who took your land,
A sweet tether, as the bind becomes,
A room in The Hague, maybe next door to Ratko,
We’ll bring this vanity, his nihilistic narcissism,
In a big yellow taxi,
Where yellow is genocide nostalgia
Where you will answer,
And answer you will.
