Suicide Bomber by Michael Brett

(London, my home, was attacked by suicide bombers on 7.7.05) I became a Buckingham Palace guide for death. I timed my transformation to the instant (8.51) I climbed aboard a Piccadilly Line train. Look, admire death's portraits and its corridors. Over its flowers I would rearrange the flowers of yourselves In the vases of your bodies. My bones were an embroidery of the air. This was no loss of life but a culmination. My body was a set of mosaic pieces destined for this instant. My violence, a kind of art, a dream language, like music Something scribbled in the surprised air. When it subsided-my ragged portrait- The police and the army were my tourists. They entered, looked around, took photographs And spoke in hushed tones. I had blessed the train with reverence. I was the man with no head and a bar of chocolate. ~ Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett Published: 12/10/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem