THE WHORE NAMED WAR 

The Whore named War
lassoed the President,
let him lay
in lascivious arms

while the Ministers
and the Secretary
and the People
                        gawked
in violaceous light
she made them come
over and over and over. 

           Though they hated her
runny-mascara, caking-rouge
mawkish montage,
they loved how she raked
long fingerclaws
over clavicles and genitals,
drawing their blood.
She cast spells with the nettles of her hair,
whispered their names with her sulfurous breath
and they echoed hers back
      like drunken somnambulists.
They loved her more
than the arms of peace
their wives held out to them,
better than the kisses of their children;
they praised the medals
she pinned in their flesh,
fondled her hands
soaked in fear's urine.
She sent them to mesmerizing lands
where they learned-- 
          mother, father,
         wife and brother,
         axioms of teachers,
         ministries of healing-
         naught; all - naught. 
They heard her voice
in the desert sirocco; 
      in Everywhere's sun
saw her eyes' anvil;
felt
the shroud of her breath
in the moon of forgetting.
Their nights were green and their eyes feral,
searching mosques and alleys for video monsters,
in death-strewn arcades full of cliches.
The Whore's V.D. contagioned the nation,
spewed pus from politicians' mouths,
prattling mewlishly of duty and honor.
Preachers lavished gifts of diamonds and pearls
and fools heaped ostuaries
to The Greater Cause.
Her laughter frothed their putrescent lips,
broiled their brains in the basins of skulls.
They loved the rancid milk of her tits,
the hydra-heads of her teeth-lined loins.
To lie closer, they folded their plicate wings,
ate blood and shit and the sweat of each other,
retched their names in history's spittoon,
lay blear-eyed, dreamed-out, dreamless at last.