Slugs

Consider this my resignation from diplomacy.

I told you every word I know
I said too much and not enough
I saw you try to fly times three
I watch you cry red wine and scream

My slugs all know how to punch
There’s me at
The bike, the back
All my bugs ate all my lunch

Stream of consciousness like omnipresence, posthumous
Spike of politics swarmed by the communists
Stretch the governor, open palms and wrists
Mazaltov with Molotovs
Plucking heartstrings with fists and sticks

The other slugs salt the parliament
No love for the House of Commons
No marching for the peeling comet
No parsing for the dead at the summit

It’s slugs.