Conkers

I watch the one o’clock battle begin with the lion faced soldiers trampling on the school field,

who once murmured the peaceful demands from the righteous kings and queens ignored by the bell ringing prayers to God, Allah and Krishna,

whose little hands split spiky shells and pelt grenades through the freezer chilled air,

cheek slaps of fallen monster corpses and blood drenches the sparkling green tinsel along with the human skull crashes, whale whimpers and fox cub cries,

I watch the pastel children, crippled with contagious snot-faced disease, play with those wooden frozen hearts,

who throw toothless smiles and linger a choir of giggles at their X-marked targets, just escaped from recent captivity,

whose little hands hold onto their freshly plucked organs, donated from the death of Mother Nature,

dangling on thick fraying cuttings of string, attached with pig pride and geese glee to meet the Grim Reaper,

I watch the white clean fairy tale pages wither into a burnt yellow and sodden orange crisp burial,

the hands will fondle my bone chipped nose and wrinkled lips will assault healing kisses as I try to sniff the baked corpse stench,

where the plump balding witches will huddle over my heart cauldron in order to stir the potion for the emerald jewel of jealously,

who should I be when I’m unable to sense any death floating around my cell, just the tribal call of enjoyment, passion and dedication towards campfire flames of war,

I watch the earthquake shudder the lazy boys’ bicycles chained to the concentration camp school gates,

whose forgotten their plastic blue toy limbs which are scattered among the wired underground explosives waiting for the pitter patter of petite feet,

whose little hands will rip and claw at the ripened green darlings out of Mother Nature’s pumping red womb,

who will lick their mud-cracked lips and mother kiss their buried treasure and hold it towards the sun which will praise them with a golden glory star sticker,

I watch the chef’s grease haired kid rise from the steep hill of the fallen child cemetery and the ugly human boy waves his arms in victory,

who stamps and pushes past wimps nursing their dirt-studded knees and dangly elbows clicked into sharp odd protractor angles,

whose little hands must now drop their weapons and must blank their chalkboard brains,

the battlefield now claimed as his trophy and the children must bow or curtsey to greatest,

I watch his squidgy lips lift up into a turkey twizzler smile so he can spit his saliva onto the hellish ground,

who casts such a sickeningly sweet innocent aroma despite his elderly mother gave a deadly bloody birth to,

whose little hands should be banned to roam through the tropical paths of forbidden fantasy nature where the vines protect a history of travelling and acceptance,

but one stupid kid shouts out another battle cry from the top of his narrow stick-built castle and pleads to the clouds to awaken war-torn ghouls amongst the survivors,

I watch them squirrel scurrying around, forcing poor old fragile Mother Nature to conceive again, to squeeze her aching walls to breed deadly pellets,

but it’s autumn, I know they will die by winter. The children and their conkers.

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