by Edwin Brock
There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can force you to load a wood
to the top of a hill and then nail it. For this it is necessary
a crowd
to wear sandals, a cock crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and a man
hammer the nails in place.
Or maybe look for a piece of steel frames
traditional form and
and try to penetrate the metal cage that protects it.
If this is the case, I needed white hair
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
least two flags, a prince and a castle where
celebrate the feast.
scruples aside, you can also, if the wind
permits, suffocated with gas. But then you need a mile of mud
carved with trenches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters, more mud
, a plague of rats,
dozen songs and some round hats made of steel.
In an era of aviation
can fly many miles above your victim and liquidate
to push a little button. All that is required
in this case, is an ocean separating them, two
systems of government, the country's scientists,
some factories, a psychopath and a piece of land
anyone will need for years.
These are, as I said before,
cumbersome methods to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much cleaner
is to ensure that lives somewhere
twentieth century, and leave it there.
Edwin Brock (19 October 1927-7 September 1997) Was a British poet.
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