I arrange to make the razor strapped
And dream of two-doored Cadillac’s.
From the shadow of a broken rock
Above the flatness of promised land
A harshness shines in waves
Of colors bruised and bloody
And the wind blows grit across an empty field
Where the only smells are salt and rust.
Winged and weightless, the flies hover,
Sure that in the intensity of sheen
A sweetness is upon them,
Just as I mistake the agony of effort
For a prayer of submission.
In spring the newborns played
By summer all the doelings caged
And only sheep remain at graze
To see the winter coming.
From the old I take the young
And leave the damned to mourn the loss
In faith that ritual sacrifice
Will ease the doubts I’m given to.
With a razor strapped and a marble slab
I make a myth of ruthlessness.
Mike Brady 2010