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.