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Silvo the God

Perhaps there is such a thing as a national psyche,

Even when the world is trussed like a turkey

In satellite bands of electronic steel


But have the Italians never shifted

Their long allegiance to Caesar (every woman's man

& every man's woman) or Mussolini,


Incarnated in a tanned old rooster

Crowing while caressing the polished boot of Italy,

Parading his erection as evidence of immortality?


Silvio the God will never die while the riches

Of television & the State pile up to choke the doors

Of the courts & the throats of Judges,


He will live forever with his cloud piercing penis.

If he was a woman he would become invisible

& tough like Angela Merkel -


Not that ordinary woman who grows old

Hiding her need for warmth, who instead will plod

To the Church to perform works & pray


To that beautiful male stretched out on the cross

That he should come down to whisper

Gentle words in Latin but instead she must


Bake sweet cakes for her Grandchildren -

Become the carer of the family history (Because

Nobody desires her unless she is useful, or wealthy)


Then she becomes tight fisted & hard,

Dry as a plaster crucifix.


O great Silvio, count your riches & beware.

You may yet find yourself hanging by the heels

In the breeze beside a row of your pretty girlfriends 


(First published in Mascara


Go to Rae Desmond Jones's profile to read more poems