One of the poems…
Guy Fawkes and the
Torturers
A cobweb-scrawl –
he could bearly hold the pen
he signed – just –
a bag of loose joints for the flames.
He was racked for
days, in the forbidden rooms,
the cellars of the
dark soul, fallen.
One day, hour,
minute more – to the God of pain
he clings; wrenches
to mind the vales and loams,
beloved, where they
crouch, the lodged names
- gouged at last
from the deep bed, scraped from the bone.
The fracturing
sticks of this incarnation,
its twisting
strings: the torture-scholars grind
the rope and tackle:
crush the shadow, blind
and dumb; they’d
pincer out the nerves of God
if they only could –
pay back the terrible Word,
the act,
intolerable, of creation.
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