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.