ISSUE 3
 

William Ward Butler

 

Cartridge

 

There’s no poetry in a car bomb: carbine:

no carnation in barrels can squib a shell, a war:

 

futility of metaphor—even speech

conspires against us: all quiet in the West

 

as the gyre widens: new liar’s pulpit,

same liars: it was late in the empire:

 

they threw bears into the bullpen,

lit fires to see the carcass better:

 

no third party but a bloodhungry crowd:

you know what they say about young kings

 

and crowns: Molotov is a man’s name:

Parabellum if it’s a girl: to prepare for peace

 

they split a baby, an atom, the world.