| 4:09p |
Triage
Triage [Draft 2]
Take this, my splinted arm
And add my weight to yours
I'm a snail leaving a trail of slime
I'm crawling on all fours
Got the tunnel-vision of trench rats
The solitude of the deaf
My lungs are bags of mustard gas
Can you smell it on my breath?
I'm through with playing hopscotch
Dodging mines on two bum legs
I'm through with dancing foxtrot
No more mumbling the peg
I'm leaking like a colander
Cork my bright wine with a thumb
Bullets bored their keyholes red
The stigmata of the gun
The air sweats smoke and vinegar
The earth rolls like a drum
The sky deigns not to fall down
It gapes motionless and glum
I'm clutching at Old Slabsides
And there's one left in the pipe
I may ride it into heaven
If salvation's overripe
Take this, my splinted arm
And add my weight to yours
Let's slither between the salvos
Let the triage run its course
They'll cleanse our wounds with maggots
They'll sew us up with thread
They'll mummy-wrap our injuries
And stretch us among the dead |