armed force
under your hands
my nicotine yellows are soldiers
trained to fight as one unit
in close order formation
they advance
these battle suicidals
that have bitten and ground bullets
and chicken bones
are ready for your breech—loading syringe
ah, my drill commander
you bore through my tolerance
dredge up the foul silt
enamel my courage
with glossy stings of torture
rivet the scandalous autism
of my pain
i am still here
soused in lidocaine
but sending red balloons
with my sailor curses
