Those lazy curls of smoke above the city,
black wormholes in the air of noontime's bright Ground Zero;
Did they tell you what you wanted to be told?
Or rain-skinned on a concrete fastness,
fortress island in the flood;
You walked among the smashed machines,
and looked trough undrugged eyes
for engines of another war,
and an attrition of the soul and the device.
With craft and plane and ship,
and gun and drone and Field you played, and
wrote an allegory of your regress
in other people's tears and blood;
The tentative poetics of your rise
from a mere and shoddy grace.
And those who found you,
took, remade you
('Hey, my boy, it's you and us knife missiles now,
our lunge and speed and bloody secret:
The way to a man's heart is trough his chest!')
- They thought you were their plaything,
savage child; The throwback from wayback,
Utopia spawns few warriors.
But you knew your figure cut a cipher
trough every crafted plan,
and playing our game for real
saw trough our plumbing jobs
and wayward glands
to a meaning of your own, in bones.
The catchment of these cultured lives
was not in flesh,
and what we only knew,
with all the marrow of your twisted cells.
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