Hand me your gun
Take my songs
Spread them on the battlefield
And engrave them on shrines of faith
I’ll take your hand grenades too
And give you tangerines to take home
To the mother
Whose tears have dried on the kitchen counter
That has stopped boasting of warm food.
This boot looks rather mournful
What with its partner stolen by an interfering land mine
Take these slippers of hemp instead
Lay them out in front of the temple steps
Courier them to
Your father’s arthritic condition
Hand me the lump of metal
That hangs around your throat
There are people who better deserve to be dressed in stars.
Here’s a deal
In turn, I’ll let you taste moon light
From the pool of water
That hosts pageants of the night sky.
Pellets only make your pockets heavy,
Take instead these cashew nuts
And let not your willingness to close fingers
fall in proportion with their weight.
The soot suits not your face
And the work of red
Harangues the colour of those lips
That make the frayed photograph
In your worthless wallet
Worth more than the warehouses
You and I maintain.
I see now why you keep making trips to this free market
How you exchange:
A quintal of pride for an ounce of love
where you loosen yourself into the self-gratifying nature of a loss
that helps you forget that you are losing her.
Before the wedding pyre of an unchaste lover
Before the funeral pyre of an undead mother
Makes poverty a description for a state of undead, unrelated to wealth.
Hasn’t anyone ever told you?
You don’t look so good in green.