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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