Canny Amah Poet I do not know?

Xi: Ichor Or Blood of Gods

Darest V.C.,
The voodoo was the ill-omen,
Like the Mills bomb of the uniformed;
The voodoo was under-stated:
Youngsters danced by your stygian microcosm;
The voodoo was our ill-omen,
A crypt in this forest of pantology!

Darest V.C.,
The tear-gas tattle in the tavern;
The uniformed patrol perverting the road;
The pestilence of beating rods;
The petrifying forcing of the lasses
In vaults inside the vault;
Are these the few marks
Of the venality in the Ichor?

Darest V.C.,
Of course, not these alone!
Many are limping: few are walking,
And some of the walkers are limping
In their inside –
Of course, not these alone!
We all saw the fallen logs,

These logs – darest V.C.,
Should have been the ready trees 
In the forest of their ancestors;
Of course, not these alone!
Many of the stars were lost
By the reposition of your sky,
And we like one long wood
Are the fallen logs of the Ichor!

Then – darest V.C.,
At your kindly instance
Some logs were towed to the ready rascals
Of the regius horse-pital;
Of course, not these alone!
Blood of gods gushed freely
From these blessed horizons of your rod.

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