sun-fed stone by Joschua Beres

your constant resurrection mocks our mortality.

your primordial dance is mimicked

by the homeless Vietnam hero

drowning in the brown tar river of heroin

before he nods off, with holy arms,

into the ecstasy of blackness and drool;

escaping deeds made medals, and like you,

the bombastic suburban smug of day.


like him, we have declared you mad,

the instigator of misfortune. gelidly confined

to the asylum of space for your hysteria –

without even a crust of bread to hold you,

or water to free your parched lips to speak.


but if I were the ocean, on the tiptoes of waves

I would rise to greet you like some mystic,

bash open your skull, and suck out

its sagéd wisdom. so laconic

it would tongue-tie Herodotus and Plutarch

holocaust their envy, and reduce them to ashes.


oh, silent chronicler of man!

you have seen us sludge from vapid ooze

to stand the humane destroyers of worlds!

great cities have shined in your mimetic light,

and have disappeared in the brilliant

atomic flash bang of the synthetic suns

we have employed to shock-treat dazzle you.


you have known every god,

and thought yourself a god of omens.

how it must birth-pain you

to see some among men rise to gods:

as they are worshiped for their money.


you smiled when Adam cried

at the beauty of Eve;

and have laughed – toe tapping, knee slapping,

at the comedy of our collective cannibalism.


you fancy that your face has been

the envy of constellations, who have broken planets

and hurled them at you in their anger.

but it is said that you are just an addict

to the tragedy of man. a delusional star,

frozen in sun-fed stone.

in reply, you hold up a mirror.


and as we have tumbled, stumbled

drunkenly forward with our blind faith

and our judging, selfish hearts full of selfless love

to manifest the destiny of our future,

we have sent you a bouquet of astronauts and starships;

caressed your pale cheek, and overnight

transformed you to into Helen.

the conquered prize of our Cold War.


but there on high you sit confined and smile

because long after you have been claimed,

long after our corporations have

bent to their knees to drink from your lap

and, fingering your pleasures, leave you,

abandoned and spent-

our labs and empty buildings,

cobwebbed in your lunar dust,

shall keep you company.

and you will wear our waste and ruins

like jewels and dance. while your barren mother

the earth, long divorced by humanity,

looks on, empty and cancerous,

from across the distant gloom.


Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

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