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Red poetry, flowing through the mud.
Liquid; cathartic tales for man and steel alike.
They wrote of smoke rising from the chimney,
arms braced and fire in the snow.
Poetry, the kind one finds transcending through the ocean
with all the colours of blackness, a cacophony of light.
It speaks of the clock, voices on the radio,
sweat, and the rain on leaves.
Soulless and shaking, this poetry, with its panoply of malice.
It sings of little boy and fat man, strolling down a beach, casually;
wearing the face of the devil.
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