those snuff movies of dead babies
suffocated in tents, or bomb-blown limbless.
I don't know why it doesn't sodding explode
when women, young boys, (men, i suppose)
never move again, but lie in blood and dust.
It should begin with a low growl rising towards
a wail that smothers the fucking applause
from cold-eyed shooters and spectators.
It should shake with sorrow, with electronic rage,
bust its volume control, cause local grid outage
in protest, then with maximum impact, blow out,
the fragments rat tat tatting as they travel widely
though the streets of our bloody-handed country;
etched on each burning part - a name, a town, a life.
© Cath Campbell