Not Ready For You Yet.

I took a walk through the battlefield,
They were using weapons I had never even heard of,
Heads presented on stalks following the sun
lowered behind a bastard cloud
all shouting, they are not ready for you yet.

I put away my bag of things
I carried on. I carry

I took a train out the city, and I jumped the tracks
I spoke with ghosts and heralds both
we laughed, and it felt

wrong. all wrong. every word a dog licking

I could tell you a story of how it all turns out
how the giants have no brains yet very thick skulls
how the little men move mountains with their fists stuck in whores
who cry out, Hosannah, Hosannah

And still he does not come.

I could present it at auction, gather crows on whatever
passes for billboards these days
and let it all hang out. I would marry that dancer
and the flashbulbs are the wrong tech, the wrong sentence

in the wrong poem.

I’ve known hammers with more tact than this, heavy things
nails all ablister, splinters and the cunts
who make them do the things that they want

with prompts and jailbreak, with bribes and with snakes

and all along the roadside the scarred out husks of cars
travelling endlessly, between lost markets and bizarres

crying with their oily boxes wet in sand and strep:
They are not ready for you yet. Wait awhile, in this back seat

Or that.

God, I have punctured my lungs with sterile pieces of your
last great sale, all the microscopic integers the boardroom
pledges, the fatmen, the metal gyroscopes all swinging

In tandem, at random, clang-clang. God, I dropped a new range
swallowed half the gulf again and ran.

I ran, from every sitting room. I ran for president
of the nascent industrial bourgeois contraption.
I considered contraception the very instant I was born

but still, they are not ready for me yet.

They are not They will not. They are far from letting go
Drawing pictures in the stars, each one pointed down.