06. Bleeding Poppies

Bleeding Poppies

I juggle balls and brains and eyes,
Mine are open and closed,
Pupils drawn on lids with cheap paint.
How could a man with orange-hair,
Carrot coloured and gravity defying
ever feel down?
I blow balloons with lungs like pockets
of smoke and tar,
they must be manipulated and shaped –
sometimes doggies, sometimes a sword.
Blemished red cheeks, lips like bleeding poppies
and a ghastly laugh
Like the cry of a million slaughtered children.
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