Sex and Murder Magazine

By Anton Cancre

Sharpened bone in clenched fist,
screaming and convulsing in a crimson haze,
railing at the sky and the earth
and all that draws breath between.

So forward on and forward on…
Driven by drums of human skin
into the doom that we carry on our shoulders like a god.
Behind us broken cities lie guarded by heads on pikes
and charred skeletons in neat little piles;
before us a black sky rises as the sun slinks into hiding
but even the sun shows no mercy in our wake.

We wear destruction because we are destruction;
severed-ear necklaces and a lucky baby’s foot
axes, bayonets and M-16’s held high.
We are the harbingers of death,
the forebears of the blood seas.
We are coming.