Thunder The Poor Plagued

[Eric Ashford]

Thunder the poor plagued,
the tread thread barest.
Thunder the crow black priests
beaks clattering, hands anointed
with broken oaths.
Thunder also the mean streets
and all the mean sisters of hope forgot.
Thunder under a seashell dark,
for a flea picked residue
is the image of love,
God bedecked in the vesture of the ragged,
a derelict in a derelict park.
Thunder in the unmade bed
where sweat exhausts an arid skin.
Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast.
Thunder naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment
and the next. Thunder until words
riddle and warp, being all things left
after the clap and roar.

[indar]

This could be read as an apocalyptic vision, but I think not. Might be a mini-apocalypse though--the death of an epoch. In retrospect, after the "clap and roar" the words that will define the period will also warp the experience---it's inevitable.

I love this:

Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast. 

[font]And the crux seems to lie here:[/font]

Thunder naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment

[font]It seems a moment in time such as this present one does strip naked and reveal the worst in human nature.

Do the afterwords help? Depends on who you listen to, I guess.[/font]