The Object

Destroyed.

There is a melting in the core.
The wax flows out.

It is my heart
(a frail object forsaken by subject and verb.
Wait...
Define: Intransitive.)

(Ergative-absolutive alignment- hmm.)

Even a French philosopher would tap his existential cigarette
Contemplate a pause-
To rationalize in eloquence
Something so fragile
A blistered skin that still pumps a vigorous blood-
It would violate his savoir-faire
He would watch the sky and keep silent.

Pathetic?

This befits
Casual reference from an indifferent capitalist:
A mono-chromatic American
Typical generalization
An assembly-line epigram
Pithy label graphically designed.

When truthfully,
Aside from typical bullshit

To stake this quivering organ

(a frail and relentless pump, it keeps the ship from sinking
Yet it leaks from defective holes;
It can but maintain a desperate equilibrium.)

Lo, this oxmoronic reconciliation
It breathes a cooperative contradiction
Engenders benevolent paradox tightened by a curse.

A fervent soul graced with sufic verbal play
Would upon reflection say:
Not 'pathetic'
Pathetique!

Yes, Pathetique!

A wounded muscle
With molecular engine that haphazard fires
Sparks electric jolts through tired coils
Dim cerebral pain.
An obstinate tyranny of a thirsty will
That will not surrender on a deserted battlefield.
Hands that pull the wounded belly
Paint a bloodstain across the ground
Magnetic beauty of the setting sun.

The Massacre at Verden

In Verden

They fell;

One by one

Saxons all

Five hundred plus four thousand

Beneath the old council tree

Each tribal chieftan's head did fall.

Long lines of men

Beneath alder trees tall.

A breeze moved their beards,

But they could not see.

It was overcast

The sun was blind

The sky did not witness,

But flowing them beside,

Through reeds, the river Aller spoke:

Sons of ancient pride,

Why stand you in silence

Long lines, somber eyed?

One giant with braided mane

Hands lashed to point of pain

He heard the river and he spoke:

Mother of Saxons and Germans old,

From Charlemagne the new king

Of Christ a new god we were told;

Now his praises we must sing

Renounce our tribal faith and blood

'Else drown beneath the Frankish flood.

Charlemagne says:

Pagan Chiefs! Kneel to Christ and kiss his feet.

Saxon, lower your eyes and incline your brow-

Or by the holy cross, our swords will be fleet

Axes shall fall on they who do not bow.

The river Aller sighed:

Saxon, ancient son, I know.

My waters with blood do flow.

A river of death have I become.

So the line progressed,

And they fell

One by one

With bound hands

Under bloody axe

Saxons all

Five hundred plus four thousand

Beneath the old council tree

Each chieftan's head did fall.

The river ran bloody

Red stain upon the land

Charlemagne killed the chiefs

Converting their tribes to Christ,

Under the old Saxon council tree 

The stack of heads and bodies did grow

While blood into the river Aller flowed.