The Folded Craft

What do I care

about fucking love?

My head, a potato of earth
and my body
the earthy potato

glut

you want me to be still
...and I could not think of anything
more ulcerous, professing

I prefer
the hazy stasis
of my neck
in a Chinese fireworks factory
window

reaching the peak
posture
for posterity by

holding
a little paper plane
in my darting right
hand

red tailed
launched in flight
burning
concorde from a clown
in their hermitage

the folded craft
bumping smooth
till the yellow flames
black flakes
the hijack
but not before
the joyflight lands
in a Guangzhou victory
to live in spectres

of powder fountains
parachutes
and tom thumb crazy jacks

the sparkler depot,

it stood still
like my eyes in a birthday
card
from someone
I don't know too well
yet is supremely exciting.