Untitled (For Now)
His ears have sunk back into
his skull to escape the cracks and
whistles of exploding men,
careless with their eroding limbs
hoping for memorial films
and singing blasphemous hymns
to comfort him
as he breathes in porcelain
His wounds are patched,
with his comrades skin,
harvested to match
the bandages that
stretch from his soul to his chin
and disguise him like
the waves of bleeding mannequins,
displaying the future war fashions
decorated by the televisions
that flicker and flash across his eyelids
he will never sleep though
shots extinguished the sun
so he sucks the powder from his gun
and his stomach becomes
a dormant volcano
until he finds a match to swallow,
and his body erupts at the pores
hollowing out the hospital
and so he betrays his sons
who march to military horns
commiting acts of treason
even during birth
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