Baronet

it was a hellhound of an opiate
something you would only
find in the boldest of afghani flowers
or arranged pretty and tied in
red on the sunny table
one
strong fisted sort of song after the other
the gritty sand in your teeth-

yes and in
the mirror
you look like
disraeli after Egypt was thrown most violently and
acidic in your goddamned english
face-

oh god the names then!
it was one feckless and
irrational parade that was
all pomp and military
madness stretching over calf hide
precision and damn the
darts you are throwing at
the potted plants. it was not
the army. it was not the
martyr of a sunrise over the
pakistani mountains. there were odd blue dolls
and crying children and the
wet cement you would feel, dripping heavily
between your clenched teeth,

and the french doors-
letting the evening inside tho'
it brought the downward sobriety
of
which
was damning or any other explitive, and open at night like a wide
eye-

china blue never
sat upon the sultanate. happy angry the red flowers you handed him. and one of you walked away feeling stolen from. the hellhounds are never quiet. once you have sipped the brown
Lethe
then the open maw of the particulars stares from the top of the canal and it is all burned away