Rod Moran: The UN’s Consul Administers Hades

The UN’s Consul Administers Hades

The Consul smiles agreement and a famine
Blossoms like an intransigent bloom.
He foreshadows his own stark monument.
Power has its miracles, its disgusting wonders.
He stares through a facade of brilliant glass,
A steel tower bathed in acetylene light.
His eyes are cold strobes commanding the plain.
And in these shining alcoves of mirrors,
Embroidered protocols, cocktails and lobbies,
What image burns of his grandest designs?
Between his lips and the wine, what visions?
With each aim achieved the darkness deepens:
The stars are cocaine, the moon a slit belly,
Corpses dangle like chimes on the wind,
A forest of barbs buds along the horizon.
Small enclaves of resistance wither like flesh.
He invented the logic of cattle prods.
A murmur of crystal goblets, the dazzle of guests,
Status and rank like a map of the world.
From such sumptuous heights he oversees Hell.
The meek inherit the General Assembly.

Rod Moran

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