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
And never learned
From those who also wore hats like Thor’s
that resting place by electric sleeper trains
that straddle a war torn planned city.
As a hot plate steams like a South American summer
commemorative badges and enamelled stars
Trade through hands without contemplation of
The lost blood Driped and stain 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 winter
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 whilst counting sheep
watch a vale creation Of give or take
nine month Residency of sleep.