COLD, FROM PUTIN’S WINTER
- I –
Five kittens and a mother
A stray puppy, without one
A grieving german shepherd’s head gropes
for the hand that would give it a rub
but encounters empty seats,
with expelled shells from the raining
artillery. And milk teeth prematurely harvested.
The house is cold, from Putin’s winter
leaving spring guns
set to fire by the merest foreshadow of the incoming season
A videoman, from a far country
Drops his head, before his camera’s hard case
His own eyes cannot take in what his camera lens is gobbling up:
A dessert of brown brains
After an appetiser of red soups scooped with blackening craniums.
Fingers are frozen, on aperture control:
Hearts are melted
by the glassy eye of the german shepherd still crying for a rub.
Ten minutes ago, he was in breastland
in the Milkyway of her mama’s mammary kindness
now she is…
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