He was killed by a man who fixed teeth,
Who built smiles with ceramic and polish
For those who could afford him.
It was not a righteous kill: to quell the
Hungry fires in an empty belly, or to
Relieve the invisible toll of sickness.
It was not a kill for justice or revenge, or
A vengeance meted out for loss:
Eye for eye or tooth for artificial crown.
Instead it was for trophies: another
Head nailed to a wall; skin peeled off to
Be admired as a rug of vibrant curiosity;
Tales for telling to friends and family of
Man's lonely war with Africa's King of Beasts:
Hemingway and death in a dark soul.
The adrenaline rush of a night-time chase!
The blood-pounding thrill of the hunt!
The triumphant boast of the final shot!
The steel-startled jolt of an ancient instinct.
The blood-soaked pain of the wounded.
The exhausted death of the frightened lonely.
And so a peddler of acid etchings and
Amalgam, of dental implants and floss,
Bought himself a ruin on Kalahari sands:
The quiet ignorance of privileged cruelty,
So artificial amid the teak and bauhinia,
Wrecking a pride with pride and money.
No shame, of course, no remorse, none
At least until the world turned, and hunter
Ran hunted across the digital wilderness;
But a vainglorious dentist's brittle remorse
Could not still a world of rage, nor rest the
Ghost that roars defiance on open plains.
30th July 2015
