Paul Corman-Roberts

BLOOD, BLACK & SPACKLE

 

Beneath a Madrone tree, on a cloudless winter afternoon bathed in orange particulate sunlight, I watch a naked soldier beat a horse to death with his bare hands.

Two blows: One to the neck - one to the throat, bring the beast down to its haunches, down to the earth.

The soldier is beautiful, with untamed hair framing massive shoulders.  He leaps upon the back of the creature who resists not once: collapsing, submissive as though it has died while still standing.

A soldier’s beautifully carved muscles pummel in and out of what remains of the animals face; becomes blood, black & spackle caked up to his bulging forearms. The naked soldier flies into tantrum and finishes by stomping the dark, pulpy mound attached to the sleek waste of equine muscle.

Finally the naked soldier relents; his knees falling into the dark pulpy mound, and proceeds to cover his legs; his torso; his head with the blood, black & spackle & then rises, feet together, arms spread wide above his head & turns to face the hungry orange particulate orb in the sky.

 

The orb stares back dispassionate, unslaked & remembers to the soldier: 

I know.                                  I know.

REVOLUTIONS

 

Only happen

In combustion engines

Or turntables.

Notice a thread?

 

Revolutions don’t go anywhere

but in circles

and more circles.

 

I’d rather sign up

For the mighty cyclone

Just ask Dorothy

They can liberate you

From the gray Kansas plain

To poppy fields

Which

in turn

make you yearn that much more

For the desolation.

Yes, I’d much prefer to feed

From the hard truth

Or stay dizzy on the mechanisms

Of the old Victorian drive

To conquer still life

The fifth wall

the void

and anyone who has engaged

in revolutions

knows what that is.

Paul Corman-Roberts spent the night of the Rodney King Riots barricaded inside a Circle K Convenience store, at that time, the fifth largest convenience store chain in the USA.