The Futurist

Unpunctuating, 
fear will slice the time, 
and you will be a sitting duck 
in the hands of brutal clock. 

Drink, Apollo, 
with round eyes and 
limbless torso. He walks on 
the curves, reciting mantras. 

There was intrigue and blackmail 
in return for not telling 
the indiscretion of celibates. 

A damp squib. There was lot 
of hissing sound, but no 
explosion. Procreatiom will 
stop without fire. 

Wants to return to pines. 
The cones, the pricks and 
swaying hips of splendid suggestion.