Exodus Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

Has the emptying of Syria,
all its babies back to the waters,
has it 'made' those grim philosophers,
commercial break cut- throats
in flutter flag black?
their white on bone black
bleached bone script
tutors of gun toting babies
womb ripped

While we go to church
next to the village green
in hot sand a twisted torso
gives a lurch, a womans' scream
makes you swoon
go, Scorpion,
make yourself a ring of fire
sting yourself for a gangster god
a fly-blown dunghill where
your brain should be.

What? No-one left to kill?
No one left alive?
First we remove the head,
that's the dangerous part
in case it creates art
then what?

All you've got left
is a head in the sand
before a bullet in the head