Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Vikings II

A while ago I thought about Vikings;
tough fuckers pulling oar over teeming oceans.

Man rage matching sea
froth to mouth, 
mouth to helmet
helmet to Saxon cunt.

And there we were in the argument 
of words as clear as we could be, 
that this is in itself beauty;

in parts of old Wessex to this day
traces of Norse skin is found
nailed to Church doors
whether it was foreskin we can’t be sure
but brutal though the practice was
of flaying offenders and showing off 
their pelt, like some kind of ornament,
you have to sympathise.

When generations have their genes worn down
somewhere in that meek and shattered crown
there rises the urge to throw offenders off
to match a cudgel with a club
and teach eternity a lesson.

The heathen’s skin shrivels in the cold church door
Christmas in and Easter out

but test the blood of the congregation
transubstantiation not withheld,
and a fair portion of the frowsty barn is full
of naughty Norse Genes and wandering thoughts.

So perhaps the only way to be,
is to dissolve into inconstancy,
the aggressor here is the victim there
and the last thing about which to care
is the colour of some other fucker’s hair.