Head South Bomb

I sit ticking, burned and waiting for an excursion.

There cannot be space enough created
fast enough for my proper de-rooting, for my send-shimmering
abscission. For a proto-holy mistake taken running away. Get
out of my flamed face—sit back and spin south as I certain
jerk away from this heatless seat.

We’ve waited for a long time to find out
something about children or a lesson about
the lager spinning world
or a notice about the soul—and I don’tcaredon’tcaredon’tcare.
I’d handover all treasure for a small space in a hot place,

a parade of faces that go blank seconds from when I gottoo drunken
fell around the place. These are dicing games, with no handholding
and no waking up next to oneanother, and onetwofew towels,
and allwet allover the floor.
Don’t forgive the sun that hangs with fleshly breath/is wildly popular.

Read me close and blow me like a fuse,
hold hard to your homestead before I shoot off
bang
bang
bang
and you’re bombed.