The Futurist

Unpunctuating,
fear will slice the time,
and you will be a sitting duck
in the hands of brutal clock.

Drink, Apollo,
with round eyes and
limbless torso. He walks on
the curves, reciting mantras.

There was intrigue and blackmail
in return for not telling
the indiscretion of celibates.

A damp squib. There was lot
of hissing sound, but no
explosion. Procreatiom will
stop without fire.

Wants to return to pines.
The cones, the pricks and
swaying hips of splendid suggestion.