Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Cold Lamps

Chop a watermelon
crescents of moon will
float to The Forbidden City

pack twitters in bon-bon wrappers
it will bring an army of ants
their blood thick ink

little boats ferry a memory                become a seahorse
the Red Sea is a post office                of dead letters
the battle goes on... paper knives... stamps... Mont Blanc pens... martyrs
in Nobel museum

a water-train puffs towards a peony poem
bury it with honours
or at least seven salutes!

...years of literary leukaemia
On sparrows. Roses. Noses.
Churches. Birches. porches

Rip Atlas. The sky will flow in frontiers
There will not be any Earth...

END (Published in an issue of online journal Coldnoon Travel Poetics)

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