Pt. 1

Stepping out in red
all awash in the spumy gore of it
mounting barbed steeds to ride rough shod
or bury the bard to fuse with the muse before the wipe out.
Scarpering the oozing sludge,
a detritus of despair to further foul the filthy fetid air,
a mangled mess of metal and mud'
mortality denied in the seeping blood of it.

A sudden shrill shriek of shells,
a duck and a blast.
Explosive. Wow, what a rip. Nothing lasts.
Underpants a gallery.
Yup, you got it an umber number,
a kinda cubist memorial to the long dead
balls to Picasso, mind you, Descartes is still in bed
wrestling an ergo or two, knickers in a twist,
searching out a cogito to add to the list.
Jeez, just get me outa here.
I need air, just gimme some air.
Take a dive down the stairwell,
kinda counter Sisyphus,
burst out onto the boulevard
long side the pigeons picking at the vomit
kinda abstract expressionist, gutsy and free,
breaking form, well, c'est la vie, least so they say
eat shit and have a nice day.