Poetry | Man, the Impaler

Vernon Kerr

Nov 9, 2024 — 1 min read

In a nightmare I was abducted and foced to answer

For Earth's Species-long love of swords.

These imagined globe-headed, fly-eyed ETs,

Sitting above me on the dais of some galactic panel,

Must not be telepathic, or they would know

I'm as guilty as any of my playmates.

But, Im keeping mum about that. (Of course)

What little Earthling hasn't fashiond a play-sword

Out of any handy phalic rod (double entandre intended)?

Anyway, I'm standing there, knees knocking,

Hoping I can get by without them bringing up

Our museums stuffed with swords, daggers, spears, rapiers and sabers

Of copper, bronze, iron and steel.

One for each of the ages of Earth-days-gone-by.

I won't bring it up, but I'm worrying, what if they did?

What if they could somehow watch our sattelite feeds

And see every night's beheadings, throat slittings,

Fake blood spewing from chest punctures,

Or gurgling from headless corpses?

Or worse: a royal throne crafted from thousands of swords,

Cunningly welded with cutting edges turned away,

So no king receives the impalements of each owners' victims.

If the ETs bring it up, maybe I'm thinking I can say

"It's a joke, a sarcastic metaphor."

(Not a meme, beloved my millions.)

I'm hoping they'll buy it? I'm fearing not.

And what about the penalty phase...

I cringe.

A jangling alarm brings me sitting up with a jerk,

Staring at the wall, confused, sweatting but relieved.

I weave my way to the medicine chest,

Groping for every vertical surface,

To ingest my real-life battle swords.

Wish me well.

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