My Sort of War

The wars they wage on,
the battle cry an asthmatic
squeak
as the calloused generals
squat low, then bend over
in drumming sub-breath.

The battle scars, they stretch
into feathers, their skin a-thin
down melting wax
into fat blood wicks, which
then harden into sunseting scraps.

Moon-beaks peck at shafted streaks,
fancy their yellow shadow
of peacock-eyed plumes,
underbellies thought soft and safe
from the pin -dark- drop spindles,
a blister of stains and spears.

Clotted spills pool
in the crouched joints,
bright black shells strain a
barreled gunpowder march, halted
beyond barricades of barbed wire
and smooth electric scrawls.


All the world tires and still
that impossible white fog,
the head
is no man's land.