NO ODE ON WINTER
[translitic inspired by "l 'Hiver Bui Court par les Rues," Raymond Queneau]

 

I am the pride of grates and anarchy
When stubble and prosthesis knuckle the throat
Poetry is a practical event

I claim the frozen black condom
When hacksaws ring rust, red lurches and sings
Music's a flat cat in the street

The unsigned document, an official's shrug
A match cupped against the wind stays lit
Skin's blister exits the thumb

And I recall dusk on a small lake in 1959
Entire continents of rubble and bandages
Give me the anthem, the axe

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