by Bruce McRae
The Dog Said
The dog said Christ
is there no limit to man’s cupidity.
Looking up from his bone the dog said
there are cities on fire, and rivers too,
mankind’s cruelty effortless,
his nature unnatural.
Gnawing a flea, the dog continued;
I can’t get their taste out of my mouth;
and the stench is spellbinding.
Man’s stink is ordure and fear.
The sounds he crafts
are the noises death makes when weeping.
The dog pulled at his chain and growled.
A strange meat was his dinner.
Everything Is Anything And Something Is Nothing
Turns out my poems don’t have a centre,
aplomb and panache headed west,
the last hanger in the closet clanging,
dust devils dervishing in the inkwells,
the dream-dogs slipped their leashes.
And now the mid-winter blahs have set in –
blah blah blah being the gist of it,
the gospel according to Saint What’s-His-Face.
Another day in the come-what-may,
every syllable a dull edge, each trope a firefly
you hope to jar and display,
communication tenant to the human animal.
Another day at hand and we expect big things,
disappointment a salve for our convictions.