CALIBRATION

This one is about war and peace and war and peace and war, and then peace again. And I have no idea what any of it means.

I heed the weight of the ninety-nine percent

Those fraught under cracked cocaine diligence

In my fat, remembered loft of this:

Everyone disappoints me - the infantile carcass

Driven like s**t into the commandeered pit;

The adult men, I call them Iron Calves, 

They take me as they please, the well-wished pat--

Little velveteen fists, mind pummelled into 

Raisin-sorry apricot eyes, defined galore - 

The Brooklyn marble fences for Godiva,

And the soft men rise like a uproar 

To the mountainous rage of Air, and the 

Sore limp of brotherhood, flails the nation like a flag

Resurrecting the betrayal of God at sea,

All animals retire to the unforgiven sky, 

Pupils of pennies unmount the lover's charade. 

The draught tightens the idea, chokes it into loving me

Like the human man did not dare. They follow on alone,

Damned at birth, damned at love, soaring like Zeus in the shut-off

The curse of closing opens the mouth of Regret, the sickly

Little sheep drowned in a hunter's spite. 

The once-rich mind of our generation, now shrimps against the Angel's breast

Wails and whimpers, carved like a foetus. The black-eyed

Monster kicks the venom from the throats of Ghosts,

Deems the planet

First Come First Served.

The soft men rise. Unroots the wind - the marrow of the thunder

Unties it's shoes at the door and begs Daddy's forgiveness.

The holes let the rain come in, the less gilled and less skilled

Of men pitter-patter the storm out until the dry air rises

And falls onto their rushed bones, collects like stones in the soles of their shoe-

Their soulless shoe - and the vacant man winds the storm up

Into the bottle of the boat, taps with his forefinger,

And spoons the wonder of destruction up with his spiralled tongue,

Whispering, whispering The sorry state you're in

Damned, damned, damned-

A proper laugh for those of us

With a sin or two and nothing to account for.

The advocate for God, upon given the last word,

Choses for his Mother, the gate-keeping Hen of limited feathers.

He chucks to the brazen sage keeping yellow amongst his beaten woes.

Killing the omniscient, whistling bridge-

Fences one more time, the imagination of one too soon to sudden.  

The opened eyes of an Artist, floundering a coral need for oxygen

Sings the first of many, the harkened harmony of all matter. 

The World opens it's eyes, yawns like a fastidious toddler,

And flits it's angel mind across the barren war-zone, holding the 

Aortic effort for all eventual existence, in the place Love resides.