Essex Boy

Cold bleeds the sap and crushes the bark.
Every step moves leaded foot and stumble.
Bound hand unfeeling trodden and pulled beaten and kicked.
Hair grabbed a stolen view of a sodden grave of winter sun warmed frost.
Militia hop in vigour and subtle joy fingered trigger guards.
Knees scarred and let loose vile rivers of gravel blooded serum.
A victim placed to the rear of him, a quiet gasp of revelation.
The old man whisps of greyed hair blown by frosted air.
The Captain looks upon the burning sky and sees his will be done.
Two men and a woman bound upon the edge of unexplored shore.
A desperate touch between them stolen from the barrel twisted and oiled.
Justice or vengeance they could not tell in court rooms of jeering juries.
Mind addled unfeeling the litany of charge and counter charge.
A finger raised in protest and broken upon the bench.
‘My life stolen’ a witness screams.
A plea to court, Judged by the wronged.
The Screams of brothers imprinted upon cold damp plaster.
Scratched surface testimony of pain celled and locked.
No saviour for them riched and finest rags soaked in oil and fired.
Their burning bodies flung into the river.
Scorched eyes reveal their seat of power now fired itself.
Fawkes himself would weep at the crumbled brick.
A click of weaponry a sudden awakenening, a quickening, gasp cold breath.
The cold soil weeps into his body a corpse already dampened.
The Captain eased lights a cigarette and blows upon the breeze.
Bound and chastised a final indignation a breaking of a law.
Roped man rattles and his companions weep at him in fear.
They grasp they think a final rescue a mercy forgiven.
The Captain stops a second of time and speaks confession.
‘A thousand corpses froze by cold and uncounted unburied dead,
unpeopled cities, unworked factory floor, cast away unwanted life,
unwanted uncultured history, an eye for every crime of government lair,
unpunished you were, unthinking animals, an excuse unread paper and thesis,
an undoing, untied unrestrained besuited demon, vile seed upon a fair land.
You were judged by those untouched by your policy they sit upon cushioned seat
as is their want and needs. I care not for them’
Three souls upon the edge of hasty grave.
Bittered and chastised no mourning for them.
Your offspring lie upon rusted hooks.
Your colleagues upon damp concrete.
Yourselves upon Essex mud.
Militia rip his shirt from him mask reveals his fate his wife bound weeps.
‘No’ the awful vision as the bullet rips her face and jerks upon the soil.
Blooded river steams upon the morning.
‘An Essex lad, a fitting thing’The Captain ponders.
‘My Mother jailed and murdered within her courts of law’he says and steps back from the vision.
‘Spurter of filth’ another cries and shoulders weapon.
He rests six rounds in her inert chassis.
Bounded man twisted agonies mouth raised and bidden to cry and God takes his last
confessional whisper.
I shot the round that killed the man that governed the law that held my family guilty that wrote the note that broke the spoke and turned deaf ear as he counted the money and fingered the power that knocks at night in awful fright as booted besuited animals of policy and fear……
He twists in pain with half a brain cold twisted muscle unaimed round we leave him in the Essex mud….i spit upon him.

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