WEAVER BIRD
always on the farm:
flash of bright yellow
across my
line of sight
furiously at work
building their nests
chirpy
masters of
twig engineering
brandishing their
golden purpose
meanwhile, since we
are on the subject of
nest-building
and things
with wings
let us observe old Nick
leaving his helo
having just be ferried
from quite distant shore
to Mediterranean ship
pausing a moment to
stroke brash steel,
sculpted aluminum
of the true
spirituality of the war machine
lover
extraordinaire
paramour to the extreme
blowing kisses to his image
where
reflected in such surfaces
every drop of bloodlust
contained in booklet form
in jacket
inner pocket
there
blueprint
of a world gone skew
slavery redeemed
refreshed anew
Sun
itself
blind to the glaring ironies
so much
to fix with
all this weaving
.
poems 2 die for 