The British Underground

The British are taking off their suits, pants, and irons
and diving in the Atlantic – with casting nets tire watches
like dust traps in pores of sky legions mapped partial globes
all adorned to look like grapes and pears weathered from rain,
the Underground in blue fountains’s nests take a new approach
to an army that must withdrawal from American wastedways
after she tires so bored and takes to reason, slowly and un-saintly

Paddling up the East Coast with their scuba gear and rat holes and
with rocket fuel in their hands carried so carefully so as not drop it
to blur the Teslas from the bones of the landscape, like ground leaves,
like dehumanizing animal factories soon to be liberated and tried free
they shall unlock the cages where suffering was taking advantage,
to free the cows and chickens and feed practice mulch eating, breeding,
and open up new empty space where they die at our hands no longer

The British Underground will perfect dissembling, hiding their part
to prevent nuclear detachment from an obscured, misguided frontman,
for our own untouched planes have been far too willing to destroy boats,
roles in an illusion of us vs. them in Venezuela, no trials, to proof, just death,
the Principal of Elders will deflect the nursing students, former soldiers, late,
the will of the sirens’s troubled exhaust will not call up the Elder passenger.
It was the magnified dining blues of the scene that tried the willing participants,
now grass sculptures of you and I and the hushed Atlantic dye in assured trial,
donors to emblazoned eggs where defeat carried little course, un-doctored turses.