between gold and iron still hammered,
each living one of us, keen to jingle and cleave,
in the west, that is, that I know of, where the wind is red.
bearded in boats, they cut the ocean: we singe air.
The word’s still: ‘On’
which means To The End.
we cut the balls of god and killed his woman,
we’ll take our freedom at all expense,
our eyes are screwed to telescopes,
our wind blows us off into space,
blows from a mouth too wide to smile, too deep for disobedience.
west man, maybe man,
but I only say what I know, is a killer,
has hurt himself worst as must be,
and he stands now on the roof of the planet, bare and pricked,
on an unleaved branch of a last tree,
listening to nothing,
but the sound of himself,