Poem O’ The Week: 10 Priests

10 Priests
I shot 10 priests.
I don’t know why I did it; I suppose
I’d had enough of their synchronised wheedling

The Luger discharged accidentally
during a demonstration of German firearms.
One priest had volunteered to play a rebellious POW.
I was the executing officer. I did the accent.
I thought the safety was on
I didn’t even know it was loaded.

The corpse lay at my boots, smoking.
When I looked up, there was just me
and 9 witnesses
the priests went berserk with grief.
I dispatched them whooping maniacally, my eyes flas
with the reluctant dispassion of a horse surgeon.

A Luger holds 9 rounds (I had explained this earlier in my talk)
so I had to bludgeon the last priest with the incised grip.
He dropped to his knees. Blood sweated into his eyes.
Before he fell, he called me father.
I wept I did not weep.

With 10 priests dead, the village hall felt very still.
The sound of a petrol lawnmower
warbled through the open window
and I wondered if anyone had heard the massacre
my brave and proportionate acts of self-preservation.

They came back to life
They did not come back to li

I cannot explain what happened next.