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Below are poems written by poet Ephraim Crud. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.

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a conflict of words

i miss the affect and effect
my father's experiences
of mindless mass destruction
and madness
that had me pinned to every word
as moonlight on each
shone down on their dugout

'johnny, got a light'

dad lit his zippo

turned

and eric was gone

he didn't hear a thing
no bullet whirr
not even the 'tink' of his helmet

and i think how good it is
to smell life
to sniff an ambush of the heart
under heavy fire as he
forced to headlong a ditch
landed tete-a-tete
on the bloated green remains
of the enemy
and promptly puked over its putrid face
and shat himself
terrified
he'd not hear the next 'tink'

six hour he laid there
six ****ing hours
****less

and i '****' and carp
as my oh-so convenient
worldwide walkie-talkie bill
dollops the coconut footwipe
and curse the dog crapped patio

can you imagine

i can feel the ****

the blink last glance in the mirror

reflecting how lucky i am
to breathe this chink of words
for your pleasure
tear or revulsion
your notions of a small constellation

and how good it is to eye
those chinks in the dark
that effeminate uncle john
may have faced
but for happenstance

his brother donald being short-fused
had stuck his cornea with scissors
which saw him stage
his most memorable performance
tending the testosterone of gold braid
for the duration
down the salt-watered south

others committed harakiri
for such failing the flag
for humility's sake

or the drip drip drip 
of a tortuous rising sun

or the footrot thunder of a flemish field
or sodden wood where
on a sudden an adolescent fritz
no more summers than fifteen
crossed hairs in his eye

and dad sighted
his mutter at home
worried for the safe return of her joy
and her heart broken
by the black edged letter
as he triggered his brain
to a million specks of red

and wept uncontrollably
for an age
the futility and long awaited remembrance
of all those poor bastards whose heroics
led them insane
and blindfolded by their own waste

but it's dog eat dog

someone has to helm the hounds
be the master of bloodshed
suicide dead or alive
when demons rise

and i think of the insomnia
souls nightmared by hazard
horror lost hope
and the monsters that hatched
and slithered rope tricks
to mangoes pineapples
and hog plums

yet how good
to bite the sinful fruit
to feel the thunder of a storm

the cosiness of chintzy-chintzy
chinwags and muffled naughtiness
secreted beneath blankets
underground
amid the cramped inconveniences
of smells and belly rumbles

and the weather speaks gales
blowing from the north

as on the day he reached
a small homestead
somewhere in belgium
a one room
one door where a woman hung
from a knife through the throat
her mammaries and genitalia
ripped from her red
and her daughter
of a few million breaths
swung in the chilled air
from a meathook in a beam
while a sepia'd loved one
stood by and smiled

and i think of the propaganda
the espionage and intrigue
the red herrings meticulously cast
for the irony of a pretend war
enduring the stark misery

but lies can be a bonus
in extreme circumstances
to assuage the inevitable hurricane
of atrocities
infidelities
in the apple of its eye
and how good it is
to feel the skin and wetness
of love
of gooseflesh giggling

to laugh a moment's relief
as father's platoon
in a lull from fear and sunshine
as they smoked and dusted their boots
through the ardenne forest
five abreast
hundreds of them 
when a whistle shellshocked the blood
pumping from the neck of
'jockey whips'
a glaswegian from peckham
who loved his potatoes greasy
and collapsed
after several headless footfalls

they never found his looks

and dad hungered how good
another chance of roast pork
and a handshake would be

and i think of the logistics
that beggars belief
and how much better equipped
to manage death than life
we are
with all the fields that have harvested
bones of memories
blood rusted metal
medals hung from heroes
and arseholes alike

and i think of the what ifs

had little maria schicklgruber
drowned in a viennese lake

had hitler a bullet with his name
in world war one

the lives that would have had
their due iceblink of this gift
this diamond moment
to experience sunups
moonlight serenades
of love as i've been blessed
because an austrian megalomaniac 
choreographed my parents footsteps 
to me
affecting and effecting your life
with my words

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  1. Date: 3/28/2014 12:49:00 PM

    This is a lot to take in, it will require contemplation. In scripture it says all things shall be used for good. There are moments in history where this is hard to imagine. I guess human perspective has it's limitations.

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