This is Nowhere

The shelling is always heavy
if the cannons live in your hide.
I said, “Come here,” and I said,
“There are fewer massacres
on this side, we have free lunches
with the devil here and still
go home to worship our
household gods.”

But I was lying – everyone here is dead
tonight, and those that walk
are suspect. I have a zombie
at the back door, banging to be let in
saying, “This is love, don’t you know that
this is love?” And there’s corpses
on the front lawn, strewn all down the street,
spilling onto the main road – dead
of exhaustion and thirst. There is heat-
stroke and heart-stroke here, a slow death
while dancing, and I don’t know
why anyone would come.

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