mutter
william wantling wrote
how if only
the muttering would stop
he’d carry a lunchbox
like everyone else
and of course
i believe him
as the odds stack up
as hooded men kneel
and die in lonely dreams
as alarm bells ring
when even last nights’
call register
scares me shitless
packing my lunch box
remembering silence
_____________________
all at sea
2am the fly agaric dreams
fire up again
residuals of a towering Babel
and Marx has gone to dust
Mary still immaculate
Ishtar lost at dusk
a huge silicon tit
to nurse our every angst
and yet
that little severed head
still haunts
her disembodied fate
a question screamed
frozen
silent
all things
and even in sleep
God makes us look again
as another little child
hugs me tight and asks
– daddy, are there sharks out there
and i, suddenly afraid, say
– yes
but far, far away
hoping that somehow
someday
we might all return
to you
no more words
or thoughts
or bombs
or fear,
the sharks
that little orphaned head
the golden arch
the Capitalist breast
the living dead
the little boys and girls
even me and you
no longer drowning
or afraid
and of course
a rose is a rose
impossible
to overlook
or fathom
like an infinite ocean
or that little girl’s
face
planted
in the rubbled dust
forever
deuce coupe 