WINE PRESSES
jm avril
Dear grand dad,
I don’t want
To inject the syringe
And therefore shut
The lawless up,
Future anarchists.
The accursed doctor
And his blue ink
Have given the night
To the casualties,
To the nervous suicide.
It is the supply of death.
The hangman with the needle
I don’t want to be.
The great sequestration
Is horrible torture
For me miserable
In the sand pit.
As a child I wrote
But the kids played
In the fateful sand pit.
My guilty jealousy
because of you, parents,
You baby-batterers ...
... Turned into alienation
When you allowed me
To join the children;
My emptiness is not bogus,
I became demented
In the mental night.
And the corpses injected
With detested blue ink
Are like grapes
Horribly ground
In the wine presses
They want to put me into.
Wishing to send me to the army
They would have killed me,
With the help of the blue ink
And I see the bloody
Wine presses,
Governmental destiny.