of a man; angels' wings
stolen from the doves.
Who giveth the foot-
soldiers wings? Why fly
when you can ride the black
-hearted wolf. Soeuer
of this cord, discord,
discarded servants rife
for the reaping of the great
scimitar of the crescent
moon. Death to you
ends in spring, anxious
buds tight little
fists. Say no more, walk
away in silence.
Go away mad.
Go away & don't come back
until you've got five sticks
of dynamite, a cudgel
fashioned from an ex-
lover's brand-new bedpost,
a shotgun sawed off
& filled with birdshot.
Await the signal then
gouge the eye, sweep
the leg: Andras
isn't the man to fight
for your honor
but he'll survive to flay
another knight &
fight another
day.
No comments:
Post a Comment