This blood of hate, this hideous prostitute This scruffy Babel-strand, this smouldering Molotov This other death, madness, this boil This blood osmoter, Verdun seed, Coin of duplicity and diplo-chicanery This rotund pilot of ennui This trigger of the worm, this bearded nightmare This latent chapter of Ragnarok This consuming curse, this oil, our oil.
The day is moss The night an interminable Agonized question. I look at the feathers In my hands And my eyes break In an African thunderstorm. My bird sings no more Alone she soars over the happy isles Unwoven from the string of Isis. My life in no more. Whatever goes shall return –John Anusie … Continue reading The Bird (a poem for the Dana Air Victims)