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Blunt bullets spitting skins
That won't sleep, that won't forget,
That won't forgive.
Tears falling like paper planes drowsy
With dew, with crying trees
And home becoming a faded picture
Sitting on the wall of my memory.
My hip is sitting on the table;
Science experiment becoming a star, a medal,
A single eye in a solution, winking
At the burning space that a world once lived.
Forgive, forget but an empty casket first.
War drums murmuring
As masquerades stretching shackled feet
Touch from the anthill to the village square,
To the cry of widows dusting their limbs
Beneath a brown moon, weeping
On river bed long since dead.
Dying with broken prophesies
Of prophets cured of madness,
Cured of visions; shivers, spittle and death;
Lots of death.
The world cracking into two days;
Each of silence;
The first day and the seventh day,
When HE rested with coffee and percod.
The world breaking bones
Like brittle chairs poked with bullet holes
Of termite teeth and dusty memories
Pushing open a large bottle and toasting the air;
Death again. The world is burning
And I am burying between your epicampus
All that I have lost; grief, fear, pain and love.
Bomb craters between here and there,
And everywhere a shelter where little children
Kiss their mothers, dying with toy gun wounds
And dreams that never fade, never wink,
Never die. Too much death.
Feverish eyes searching the sky for pearls;
HE is asleep; Valium and darkness;
Graves, flags and widow's blacks
