(After Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I met a traveller from a future time
who said: two small and stunted hands of stone
lie in the desert, the fingers short and fine.
Half sunk, a weathered head, a sun-bleached dome,
the orange skin long faded to dilute piss,
is also there, the candyfloss hair all gone
save for a strand or two, the merest wisp.
Sat on the head is a Mexican, he smokes and yawns.
Look! You can see him on my screen.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Orangemandias, king of kings.
Look on my works, ye Mexicans, and despair!
I will build a great wall – and nobody
builds walls better than me, believe me.
I will build a great, great wall
on our southern border, and I will make
Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”
Nothing beside remains, not one stone
upon another, just cacti and miles of sand.
The Mexican takes a piss, then checks his phone.
Patrick Taggart was born in India and grew up in Ireland and England. He was spurred into trying to find some form of creative expression in 2014 by his (now grown up) children, Ben and Emma, who are both talented in visual arts. A pen seemed more manageable than a paintbrush, so he decided to give poetry a go. So far he has had poems accepted for publication by Here and Now (a Buddhist magazine), Freckle and the anthology, Watermarks.
For more information about him visit: http://www.letgoandjumpin.webeden.co.uk/.