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The Revolutionary

Poetry By: donkylemore
Classics



the comatose revolutionary wracked with cancer wakes up to his last fears and doubts ; his imminent death


Submitted:Apr 20, 2009    Reads: 92    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


A few shards of light sear the limpid eyelids


Buried in a geological morass
A thought thus far , unhurried , unsurtaced
Lies deep within him.
A thought of all of his convictions

Crushed , volcanic ; vitriolic,
Is brewing slowly and fermenting

In the open sores of his
Beneath the slight and
Wasted tissue and the mottled skin

It seeps like lava
Over The tectonic plates of his convictions ;
Like a molten sea , grating his continents; of despair
His doubts now crush against his soul
Also drifting unto judgement

He rings the bell with tremulous finger,
Asks the nurse if the priest has left;
She looks askance at the frail obdurate and obstinte figure ;
His body wracked
And ironed almost flat
Beneath the starched white sheets

His breath is quickening , the monitor shimmers.

A green menace; its streak wavers crookedly, leaving
Snail- trakes across the little screen ;
The Chaplin kneels and in the flapping flurried ,
Folds of his soutane
He finds his oils of Extreme Unction

The Priest and nurse both kneel ,
The dying soldier 's breath slows, his last gasps, desperate annd deeper ;
Head lolls to one side ,
Saliva gurgles in his throat;

The resuscitation team arrive ,
And with a languid inderrerance of their ministrations
Set about the application of their skills
Then spotting the sign above the bed NFR
Nor for resuscitation.
Abandon their quest
Of delaying death.
Deferring judgement ;
Or just a clinical gesture;
Without any altruistic thought at all.

He had come through the troubles
Had negotiated with the hard men in dim back rooms
Had talked to dying hunger strikers
And sat through that long Good Friday.

And for his part he had taken the snipers rifle
To the hills , and taken his own butchers dozen
Through his deadly scope.
The bounty hunted sniper from Carraig Line
Went silently with two pips and a prolonged beeb
To his maker with one great cluster bomb of cancer.

Somewhere there , above his death bed
His souls still lingered
As they say they often do
Just after the monitor was switched off ,
And the tubes removed
And he called out desperately beseeching
Forgiveness for that unborn infant
He'd massacred so brutally in his mother's womb.
But not a sound was heard.

Only another siren shriekks in the distance
As they wheel the gurney down the hall
To the PM room

Disinfectant sprayed ; with indifference and disgust;
The urinary ,funery , scents are dissipated
The filtered shards of light ,
Splay the room of the deceased
And the eye of another patient is quickened
As his trolley rolls into
His cavern ; sanitised again;
With a little bleach and disinfectant.
And the spectre on the ceiling dissipates ;
Like the swirling fluids in the rancid buckets.


And the autopsy of the last resident there ;
Begins , with one long slice form chest to pelvis
By an aloof man with a dickeybow , talking as he goes
Into a Dictaphone.
He should be on the golf tee at three.


' large undifferentiated mass at head of pancreas'






A few shards of light sear the limpid eyelids


Buried in a geological morass
A thought thus far , unhurried
Lies deep within him.
Crushed and volcanic in its vitriol,
It now finally fermenting
Beneath the slight and
Wasted tissue and the mottled skin

It seeps like lava and twists
The tectonic plates of his convictions ;
Like a molten sea of grating continents
His doubts now crush against his soul
Also drifting unto judgement

He rings the bell with tremulous finger,
Asks the nurse if the priest has left;
She looks askance at the frail obdurate and obstinant figure ;
His body wracked
And ironed almost flat
Beneath the starched white sheets

His breath is quickening , the monitor shimmers green
Its gren streak wavers crookedly
Snail- trails across the little screen ;


The Chaplin kneels and through in the flurried
Folds of his soutane
He finds his oils of Extreme Unction

The Priest and nurse both kneel ;
As his breath slows, but deeper ;
Head lolls to one side ,
Saliva gurgles in his throat;

The resuscitation team arrive ,
And with impatient ministrations
Set about the application of their skills;
Then spotting the sign above the bed NFR
Nor for resuscitation.
Abandon their quest
Of delaying death.
Of deferring judgement ;
Or just a clinical gesture;
Without any altruistic thought at all.

He had come through the troubles
Had negotiated with the hard men in dim back rooms
Had talked to dying hunger strikers
And sat through that long Good Friday.

And for his part he had taken the snipers rifle
To the hills , and taken his own butchers dozen
Through his deadly night - scope.


The bounty hunted sniper from Carraig Line
Went silently, with two pips and a prolonged beeb
To his maker with one great cluster bomb of cancer.

Somewhere there , above his death bed
His souls still lingered
As they say they often do
Just after the monitor was switched off ,
And the tubes removed
And he called out desperately beseeching
Forgiveness for that unborn infant
He'd massacred so brutally in his mother's womb.


Another siren sounds in the distance
As they wheel the gurney down the hall
To the PM room

Disinfectant sprayed ; with indifference and disgust;
The urinary ,funery , scents are dissipated
The filtered shards of light ,
Splay the room of the deceased
And the eye of another patient is quickened
As his trolley rolls into
His cavern ; sanitised again;
With a little bleach and disinfectant.
And the spectre on the ceiling dissipates ;
Like the swirling fluids in the rancid buckets.


And the autopsy of the last resident there ;
Begins , with one long slice form chest to pelvis
By an indifferent man , talking as he goes
Into a Dictaphone.
He should be on the golf tee at three.


' large undifferentiated mass at head of pancreas'





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