Grind

 

The boot crushes down

All gleaming oil and

Black

Sole of skinned things

Once alive

Presses down

Skulls and limbs and

Excrement

Its open mouth

Chuckles

 

Writhing corpses

Still plead

Limbs torn asunder

No hands to raise

To Heaven

Trunks with no heads

Wriggling worms in bloody dust

Tongues torn from broken jaws

No mouths left to shriek

 

The boot did this.

Just the boot –

No foot, no leg

All scorn and bitter hate and

Hyena’s laughter

No pity vast enough

To fill the empty space

 

The boot is not impersonal.

It is not unconcerned.

What is the use of such

A lovely boot

If it does not stomp

Heavilly

With muddy tread

On the finest of carpets?