call 1 -  the men in the mud

-    hello

-    are you there, can you receive me, will you let me in?

-    hello, can I help you?

-    It’s you.

-    I’m sorry but who are you?

-    I am speaking to the right person.

-    who is this?

-    listen.

-    listen?

-    to our past.

-    I  think I  shall hang up.

-    no, no. the war. this phone, the hydrophone, we have to 

     warn everybody about the floods.

     when the flood came,  we waited, so long,

      so long, for you to answer. here underwater.

-    underwater? what flood, where?

-    you and I were grinding in the mud with bullets flying

     by, your hands all over on your last night under when

     your last bomb came by. commanders didn’t get it we were

     only ever lovers away from a special kind of peace.

-    I’m sorry have we met, did we hook up, was it a horny

     one-nighter, should I remember you? 

-    so many times, you were my secret. we loved like

     ancients and fought like dragons in another’s myth, I

     battled so hard to stay with you my peaceful, 

     warrior-lover-man. we were secret.

-    and illegal too, no doubt. I’m so sorry but you have 

     the wrong person, I wasn’t even born then.

-    it’s all the same under here, there is no up, there is

     no down, there is no time, no enemy nor battle. you lie

     down as lovers when the fighting stops, your enemy, you

     are the same, they drew up a field of battle, but we lay

     down forever in a field of dreams.

-    look who is this, what do you want?

-    we owe you everything.

-    what do you mean?

-    the war was won but you have won a peace.

-    a piece?

-    a peace, of acceptance never seen before.

-    but I think you won the war.

-    for men like us. yet, we owe them too.

-    who?

-    the greatest war poets, ever-lived, all of them were

     queer.

-    oh, I  see.

-    so, it's time to remember them. 

-    that makes sense

-    let’s see:

 

       you long for dark-eyed lovers, wistful wonderings for men in the mud. you want

       to make love to your enemy but there are orders to murder him,

instead. these queer old, ancient, Cain-killer-ways can’t rub out desire. last night he surfaced in your ocean, all muscular and wet. today, you spreadeagle, pin him. raise your blade.

but no, 

long in those eyes,

you know fit-fellow from under, from deepest darkest fathom of unlit pride.   

–  no, not enemy, surely not…

you quietly put the blade away, one kiss, and then another. you lick yourselves in camouflage, make passion

with bullets overhead.  

next morning news spreads like tentacles through trenches on either side: a tale of a German and an English all odd and curled together, tight passion-welded, mud-wrapped inseparable spoons.

naked.

stone dead.  

given back for sacred rites to comrades in arms, a note was prised from one strange and stiffened palm:

"I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried, but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now…"  Wild-Fred

By Kole Bird

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