December 30, 2008

Some late night poem drafts.


My soldiers, my men:

Now that I have your shoulders in my hands,


Soon you shall have marched away from me,

laughing and joking

into the blood land.

We will build pots of clay

to post you our tears,

and duck egg envelopes

of perfume.

My soldiers, my men

growing and browning

into our fathers' shoes.


This Fluox haze parts us from our parting.

I cannot believe

the threat of you.

You will be forever this flesh,

these naked limbs

around my skin.

No bombs will conquer us,

no bullets will prick this white warmth.

Uniforms won't mask the scent

of sexing

or the kisses that I placed so sleepily


Kisses are not armour

but you shall not leave me here.

You shall not be snatched,


from the creavace of my lungs.

Not on the news,

family informed,

but sleeping here.

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