The Ketchup Wars

Red Blurred Lights by Petr Kratochvil 

the ketchup wars 

whooping warriors of bloodless pretend wars

we ran, mugging fierce faces at each other as

we fell, graceless as bowling pins in faked suffering

the kind seen in the silence of marble chilled cinemas 

the kind of ketchup killing 

where rugged men rode ranges of firing rifles

stuffed with celluloid splendor of grace and always 

always lived to ride home with clean hands 

to some sweet lady holding her hair off her face

and their cows safe in the fence she had fixed 

Remote Warriors

remote warriors

and the children 

remote warriors in their fierce silence of suffering

and the children 

shaken waiting with rugged grace for an absent blessing

and the children

lifting from the now, to a parallel splendor

lying legs safely sprawled akimbo

in emerald fields Elysian 

as nursery cows contentedly low

and the children 

fear not the fixed marble of that hand 

raised in rage repeated 

as innocence defiled yet again 

and the children

rise as filamented phantoms flying on 

remote 

warriors in their fierce silence of suffering 

soaring