When proof is a drunk on percentaged street
The vodka couldn’t prevent the bol’Shoy freeze
as earthquakes ripped through painted Moral stone
Communing with dead poets who once upon
From those who also wore hats like Thor’s
that resting place by electric sleeper trains
that straddled a war torn replanned city
As hot as a steaming plate like a South American
summer commemorative badges and enamelled stars
Trade through hands without contemplation of
The lost blood Driped and stained on greying snow.
Am I eating the dumplings filled with the dead
As the meat market ran away on its four legs
During a blonde moment
Of a Agfa liberation poppy war.
Watching money melt quicker than to cold too snow
to build tanks which now lay abandoned
Should I scrap collected Copper coins and build
A rolled brass telescope.
Then maybe I would be able to read
the future of my naivety born from
originality found in contempt whilst counting sheep
And watch a vale creation of give or take
In a nine month Residency of sleep.