the wheel that turns immortal
son of he; sisters clone of myth and matador.
at ease the king and country to the voice
where no voice is, no common hand untangles
intestines from the bladder of the eye;
loves hanging hips too heavy on the arm
twists as shell through fog and spawn
crab-apple man on the turning tide
sinks Bismarck mind a dream of yesteryear
as near as dam and dusted to a shine;
how bright the sails hung naked to the skin
grieved as ants, their mothers of the sky
flew hind-leg beak through the skull less wind
in search of land for the turning worm;
where hears our soldiers cries;
life\'s horn that grunts and groans on no-mans-land
last post to salt and earth for the beggars wounds;
here lies the broken man, alone.
neither flesh nor bone
breathing paler than the ale that bleeds the eye;
with wheels that turn immortal;
a sectioned man in the doorway of a street;
loves hanging hips too heavy on the arm;