Genocide in Green
My roaring death machine blasts out the world -
the twittering of birds in trees, the breeze,
the giggle-screams of children - and I kill
and kill and kill without regret, remorse,
repine, reflection. Irregularly,
at certain intervals, the corpses clog
the mechanism and the process stops.
These irritating setbacks are just that;
the blockages are cleared and left to rot
in piles. (Sometimes the result is used
as fertiliser.) I continue on,
relentless and regardless, killing in
straight lines for speed and for precision. I
like to be neat and clinical, exact:
this weekend genocide is justified
on its aesthetic value and by the
relief and relaxation that it brings.
My lawn is lush and pure: suburbia
perfected with hard work. There are no weeds.
Anthony was a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2007
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