Come the Horsemen             These sickly plagues on procreation         put flies on the face of population         scientists pressed blind past the edge.         Make theirs the screams of poesies         that stripe night airs on ruban bands,         that scratch and grow in fading furrows,         that grade and till through silky sands         then deep as dearth calicivirus burrows.         Love's head song lorn has poison penned         the ultimate racial cleanser, pitched         face forward into world millennium three:     we sold our bethlehems for seven silver sins.         Full term a tyrant's birthling pangs         line tanks avail that swords would swallow         below the scorched face earth renewed         avengeful darklord sky burns glow,         raiment skies flame remnant signs         on rivers bled of torment floods         and emptied words more empty fail:         there's no redemption, we stay in jail.       TERRY BOWDEN COPYRIGHT MARCH 1999