Roman Ruins by Randall Rogers

I would love to
have lived back then
when severed heads,
limbs, rent bodies,
littered the battlefield
when blood pooled
scarlet and blackening
in the heat of the day
when faces and bellies
bloated unrecognizable
when moans, screams,
war crimes and agony
made one pity the very
concept of a soul
and the human
trapped therein
awakening to the love of Christ
and huge draughts 
of Communion wine.

He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie.  A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy.  He is an old young, sorry.  Here he exhibits new work.  More flashes in the pan.  I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress")  Adios!  I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).