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They Come
Stamp the earth rind down, shuck our boots & nap on rubber cockscomb pad. Rise up & ride in, poles poked through with hide of kid flap from blither wind. Ride into a town of tires stacked, a tarred prehistoric castle. A town of shacks painted kiwi green latches guano rimmed. Road’s a batter of blood & dust. One serf scurries off cowed & cloaked. Linseed-eyed & broad of face. Hold, I say. She says oh gods once nested on our tire hills but now that tire factory flakes to tinder too. Are you here from the world above? Now come. Heal my kin. Are you here from the world above? We douse ourselves with flame retardant & douse the town to flame. Are you here from the world above? We hear her death in flames We hear other deaths in flames Along each town we pass We rave & rove & gore the last oil rig hidalgo in his tin gilt throne, His ale we drink, his heart we jar. We are from the world above, We sing & jig but like Sisyphus, as we eye from afar, as each child crawls out their gutted hole, & rebuild each dead town — We can never rest.