Saturday, 15 May 2021

drop the cupola

 drop the cupola


in this light a beautiful thought is

naught but a butterfly with a fighter escort 

ground attack on a life pockmarked with

burrs off the molten metal pouring forth

what is a solar mass ejection compared to this 

the one-sidedness of a red face held fast against

the desire to back away from the ladle’s crust

that splats irate upon the hot moulding sand

feet clogged in wood and white with the sherbet 

that is spiked with salt to ease the cramps

of a day spent in this smoking foundry 

the afterbirth lying final upon lucifer’s anvil

fettling in the white noise of a red end

until the flatulence of the exploding beds

spits dust in the face of a resting seat and

for the length of the top shop it reverberates 

with an eruption of men in their element

the iron lines of a supernova arrive where 

no god sets the agenda and on looking around

the white gasses vent through the roof

where the moon travels a lonely grey 

away to the demise its own settling 




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