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The Politics of Exile

Hunching on the ice at the top of the world,
While gnawing thoughtfully on Caribou bones,
Their leader, standing next to a flag unfurled,
Secured to the hard rime with jagged lodestones.

"Wicked world!" he spat between rotting teeth,
His head nodding like a broken gourd.
"Evil world!" rasped the Icemen crowded beneath,
As they crouched on top of the world.

The ice cracked and split like the old man's smile,
As he surveyed the frozen eternity.
Then trudging forward the Icemen filed,
Into their refuge of insanity.

The war continued, the satellites spat.
Tongues of fire licked the Earth clean,
Yet the old man still nodded, still sat,
Upon the ice so pure and so serene.

The scream of star stuff split the air,
Like a wounded wildebeest.
As the old man thrust his knife with care,
Into the belly of the beast.

The arms, the legs, the heart, the spleen,
Quivered as they were eaten.
While the Icemen bowed in supplication,
To a leader already beaten.

"Wicked world!" the old one spat again,
Beneath aurora's glow.
"Evil world!" the solemn Icemen danced,
Chanting and Jumping to and fro.

The old one, the last president,
Of what was once the USA,
Collapsed to his knees, wailing lament,
And his frail body leaned and swayed.

The arctic wind blew clear and strong,
From out the firmament,
Carrying Icemen's reedy song:
A screech-like catgut's testament.

"All is lost," sobbed the leader to his dying band,
Of Icemen banished evermore,
To snow and frost in an accursed land,
Fit for devils and nothing more!

Icemen's trembling hands rose to fend,
Off blows that - though weak - could kill.
Measured out slowly by the last president,
To the groveling ones before him from the Hill.

The ice snapped and glistened like the old man's eyes.
He scanned the edges of eternity.
Then jerking up his head he shrieked at the skies,
Sobbing, "In the end, Mankind has no fraternity!"

Learn more about this author, Terrence Aym.
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