What a thrill --
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge


Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.


Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls


Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.


A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.


Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill


The thin
Papery feeling.

Kamikaze man --


The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Darkens and tarnishes and when


The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence


How you jump --
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.