Strider Marcus Jones

Weeds Left

weeds left,

wilt in the sun

without work and water.

their seeds

are the wild flowers,

waiting for volcanic wind

and ash to fall,

so the fertile cinders

can colonise herbaceous borders

ending the old age

of selfish sediment

treading it down

in molecules of time.

another Marxist

dons his trench coat

and tears pages from his red book

planting the old words

of revolution

in minds of homogenous compost.

over-privileged gallows begin to swing.

bullets sweat in their chambers

waiting for the right heads.

Strider Marcus Jones © 2016