A palm on my shoulder.
A stamp
on one of the wings,
Snafu at the barracks:
a triple S day – dry spaces are tight,
My journal gets damp. I am walking the earth just to ease
My farewell of a flight.
Three beats - to the ball
of wax figurines,
A quarter - to death.
Some seven odd hides
reap a fistful of fur – odd.
Shall my drive to exist
be as strong as to sing? - No less.
Tie my thread in a little knot.
Cold April yields
hot dreams which boil the blood
Infected with germs
of virally new tunes,
As every target of the nearest war has laughed
Revealing her craving for love and her youth.
Let the caring doctor
hit the vein and spare the nerve
With the needles of rays, fill syringes with curatives solar.
Don’t cry, don’t you cry. Be still and observe
Love foaming through
the throat.
Catch her, catch –
on your lips. For the tumblers shall not suffice.
A torpedo of sounds
strikes the chord, so – drink!
Look: an ad on a banner of the last of the springs – flies,
Rocks this square window, and the square window – swings.
A punctured temple. Blind hordes on the rise.
Do dare to dodge your exemption,
to shed your mail.
My spoils of war – a chunk of my trophy ice
I kiss as I silently near the flame.
Us – the -mongrels-by-rats –
we are the bird’s adoptees.
And each fiend by his third
still remains hard-a bullet.
Lie low and witness
a nuclear prince
Ascend with his whip
as a ruler.
Don’t weep, don’t you weep. For whom would we cry?
That’s the likes of us orphans
make the ranks of the braves!
The time is up, our time to fly!
Hey you ‘all! Clear of the blades! Keep clear of the blades!