Dead Stars

Let us forget
their faltering war
of shatterings –
of splinterings
of run-from-shops
blown high-to-dust
by others’ drops
of barrel bombs
Let us suckle –
forever blind
Who cares about
such foreign stuff
when we fight
white men seeking
re-election?
Slipped pschents
and insolence –
they are our parade
through Facebook
and shelters under
Twitter storms
I fear death through
water as spelt out
by wicked cards
placed by Madame
Dead stars travel
but will not arrive

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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