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Message-ID: <45874asstr$1071616205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Saddam -- A poem of Endings     (no sex)
Date: Tue, 16 Dec 2003 18:10:05 -0500
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Saddam
12-13-2003


In a recent movie alleged heroes
spoke of the infected humans as 'les autre'
to be observed until they expired.

"That way we will know how long it takes
for beasts to starve." Famished, they
sputter black blood and their unkempt disease
becomes thy will of Allah and no other.

We can then celebrate with great feasts
as Saddam did in '93 rebuilding palace
after kingdom as future mortuary
with school books discarded
with Sears and Roebuck catalogues.

Righteous, we will mourn the burning
of Kuwait and Bahrain; Saddam can
offer to Allah his mock devotion.


2.

Daunted, is it possible to save
love and not drive it out of its mind?

After all, we are not perfect.
Love can be seen as truly glorious
Dizzy trumpet, but in this terrorized arcade
can we select truth from the choices given.

What help is there? Who can we call for
relief or truth as the impossible answers
fail to burn, mold or release in autumn.

Love is neither one instrument of mass destruction
nor a seasonal card; some say, forever golden,
festive and with marginal meaning.

Once, Saddam was an orbit of light -- sapphires
and silver the merry green tree rode
old children into youth again repeating every
transit with a bugle blasting dissonant
echoes to celebrate the self not as stones
dropped refreshing a polluted well --
but as meandering and imaginary
lines on the globe spelling exact location,
distance and the disarray of mercy in a time of riot.

There on the trails vaulting over
hedgerows in a desert unspeakable
crimes were bound in playpens
with Hitler, Stalin and grand viral disease.

How unfit Saddam became when
we read his ledger bewildered with
useless weapons: 600 soldiers
hunted his least drivel;

Saddam's pit resembles that lost well
in "Silence of the Lambs" except,
as far as I know there was no
randy dog or sassy dressed man
to play pathos a lepers kiss.

King Saddam crossed the dark lines
of fake maps as he dashed between
his own lies, spraying the Kurds with
Sarin and brother Muslims, Shiites,
were buried in pits of tar, --
kept alive too long and that
isn't the least of his fairy tales.

It is also whispered that depraved souls
bound in emeralds with rubies as circular
suns in an impossible physics descended
with 72, I assume, male and female virgins.

I wonder. With every bomb blast sacrifice
is there an eternal, primal onanistic witness?

No looting please America, that other world
chants from 42nd Street and First Avenue.
Do not steal eyes or kidneys. Do not mock
the fundamental Koran; What do women
matter after all; they have nothing to do
with wealth and oil, is a grim stain,
a mark of heretics that first Mullah's said.


3.
Listen, hear footsteps; wander in the garden
of Gethsemane with Jesus. Neither linger
in the foothills of betrayal nor dine in agony.

Kristus tells me that Saddam is a human being
not unlike many of his time. He is one man
as we are singular. There are no Gods. That is
the misery of theology, Jesus explains. Saying
all this Jesus dances in prayer as in spirits of Allah.

Neon lights abound. Saddam lives in the wax
museum. Dressed in typical 20th century English
by way of New York Islamic garb Rockefeller
lights falter and the ice skaters invisible.

In the remainder of paradise mulched leaves
smolder as we simmer to wait our rival messiah,
or the deniable terror that poverty rings.











###
(C) 2004 Sean Farragher
http://seanfarragher.com
12-13-03

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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