They squatted under the rising sun,
testifying to the brutal energy of a dictator,
their scrotums bloated like calabashes

Diseased toes trampled on the
olive leaf once held aloof by sane comedians.
Banners praised the guards of the doorposts of hell.

Their aura smells foul —
Squatting boys —tied tail to tail for
Samson’s fox fire runs.

And the dictator bared his vile fangs
through hastened smiles.

How else is the Holy Roman Empire praised? —
except through candles moulded in Rome!
Their tallow drip and drip until sculptures form.

We mumbled prayers of vacuity,
yawning through the nettled sleep of
the crows of flapping feathers,
tumbling the peace of dawn by way of
long-drawn hymns from a somnambulist choir.

Such was the assembly of Squatting Boys
beating drums to the deafness of a dog-entranced
dictator.

Outside the thick flesh-wall of the assembly,
the clock ticked,
counting days backwards.