They Cry Fowl Over Flesh. Poem by Odey Patrick

One mind says-
we may take to witchcraft
now that land, sea and aircraft
fails us. Witty.
Another,
beating on the hides of our drum-able conscience,
provoke rhythms of pity, anger and loathing. Cheap.

I say
they cry fowl over flesh
and hit the nail at its tapered end
feeding fat on carcass gorged
out the burning belly
of the metal bird
whose miscarriage
(grave its stillbirths)
they diagnose
with vexing impunity.

Instead in our pool of words
let bob, the souls sickled before time
and the hands that bore the scythe
be trussed and staked.
Lets make no sales on cheap sentiments,
for the songs of the dead
be the lamentations of the living,
not lullabies.