John Grey
JOHN GREY: Australian born poet,
playwright, musi “What Else Is There”
from Main Street Rag. Recently in The
English Journal, Northeast and the
Journal Of The American Medical
Association.
playwright, musi “What Else Is There”
from Main Street Rag. Recently in The
English Journal, Northeast and the
Journal Of The American Medical
Association.
HAITIAN STRAUSS
The pigs will eat anything, Henri assures me.
Fish-heads, grain, rotted fruit, even the mud
they slop it in.
Don't need to poison rivers, when you've got
pigs.
They're immune to everything short of
the butcher's blade.
In the bam, Albert's slitting throats of cows.
Gather the blood, says Henri.
The pigs devour it in their mash.
Fattens them up, he adds.
Then why are vampires always skinny, I'm
thinking.
Up the hill, we walk,
away from slaughterhouse smells,
toward the jungle's edge.
Better to kill pigs and cows than each other,
Henri says.
Yesterday, he showed me the bullet holes
in the walls of his hut.
Out of sight of the village,
we reach an unspoiled lake.
Lotus flowers float atop the ripples,
slow waltzing, head on water's shoulder.
The pigs will eat anything, Henri assures me.
Fish-heads, grain, rotted fruit, even the mud
they slop it in.
Don't need to poison rivers, when you've got
pigs.
They're immune to everything short of
the butcher's blade.
In the bam, Albert's slitting throats of cows.
Gather the blood, says Henri.
The pigs devour it in their mash.
Fattens them up, he adds.
Then why are vampires always skinny, I'm
thinking.
Up the hill, we walk,
away from slaughterhouse smells,
toward the jungle's edge.
Better to kill pigs and cows than each other,
Henri says.
Yesterday, he showed me the bullet holes
in the walls of his hut.
Out of sight of the village,
we reach an unspoiled lake.
Lotus flowers float atop the ripples,
slow waltzing, head on water's shoulder.