Machine Gun
by Michael Brett

He is a conjuror.
His bullets are birds' eggs.
He cloaks the theatre in his magic smoke.
He mesmerises people. He cuts ladies in half.

Encamped, wind battered in a tent
Of flesh, I carry him and his boxes as he tours.
I watch his stars with nets of bad luck
Trawl the world.

Each day is an argument, a museum we fight for.
Sleep is three hours in a dust filled bath
Under some noseless statues.

Beneath the awning of a marble hand,
I contemplate my future and my maps.
The colours of the nations are rich as bruises.
Roads are red veins. My conjuror has scissors.
He cuts the air.
He cuts us all.
He makes people disappear.



Information Centre of Bosnia-Herzegovina London 1990


~
Copyright © 1990 - Michael Brett
Published: 3/24/11   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem