An armless general

I had the crackle of the new spring
on the tip of my tongue shot off
to deaf soldiers bent over grubs
like meese towered over plant stubs.
Where’s your pastes, gentlemen?
Where’s what let you starve bowlegged
in reign upon littler animals than guns?
I don’t see it. Eat your machines
before they eat you a thousand-fold!
Where in the stomach do you march
off to sea as if there were lines
under your feet? France, Germany,
when you enter one do you know
you leave the other behind? Or does the wine
go sour like you on the eves
doing battle against your penchant sleep?
Somewhere isn’t there a brother calling
out to the woods you toured him in
I give up! I give up the seek!

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~ by Jeremy on January 24, 2011.

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