dry molotovs

the cakes were all bunt
not burnt, just stunts
alongside liver pate
of preserved slaked sate

we hired the swans
as effective coupons
to distract from silted
lives being rebuilt

smack was the chosen drug
extinguished fires and hugs
as we bade farewell to warts
of grit and tarnished quartz

a duck or a tarn clasp
broach last breath rasp
as sheep are shorn off
the punt of dry Molotov’s

© K. van Breda