If poetry is settling, what is a stirring spoon in the muddied water?
There is no metaphor that sits at the bottom of the glass that may leap up with a momentum of a frog and catch you mid-throat before you swallow your indigestion once again, and mold into yet another insoluble
Till the new war opens its mouth and the mercenary irrigates the bomb, the glass will became fertile again with the notion of end as with blood.
I am 50% water
And this helps me to keep it caged
If I could really see inside myself
I’ll tell you
It has roller-blades for my navy blue pupils
And a gagging mouth
But I am 50% water
I do not let it drown
It huffles and puffles like a wingless flamingo
Reaching out to the red of my mind
Failing, it smokes water rings
Fixating a storm onto the intellegentia of 50 snow leapords
Hibernating in the winds