Pauvre Martory! All those months in Tunisia

drifting on the chipped cusp of nonexistence,

yellow like yesteryear, sweating gunpowder,

choking up on surreal loves and manic

lusts inking the petrified yolk into sky.

Jaundiced and blue, a jazz trombone out of tune

still waiting for life to throb through its paces

according to the season’s barometer –

flakes of fire, furnaces moaning, mosquitoes.

When they lock you up in the wards, don’t let on.