Butchers

She convinces me
and the night slips
into bed with me.

The warrior worries
that he hurries too much
perhaps
that’s a touch,
touch too far.

We are heads on the block
and the guillotine’s stuck
stock in the pot
and no one gives a fuck,
let them starve or eat cake
how I ache for a crust
and just when
we think we are men
we’re convinced that we’re not.

Night wraps her arm tight around me
I make no sound,
but my mind screams no more.

The allegory,
the flaw
hurts
but it’s war
some of us won’t
survive.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.