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Treaties were written so the west could see the death.

I am the west, and I am death –

           and I will win you, my cup of Africa with maybe Maybelline eyes,

my sign of “mea culpa” sucking on a Marlboro Light.

I say nothing.

I shred documents just to kiss you.

I utter nothing as I burn fires just to wake you.

I take your slumber.

I roll the five-sided dice, and it falls

            on the axis side.

Elongated and tired, signed, singed, doused but not yet burned out.

We are here to batten the barriers, bridge the bruises,

             find out the middle:

It takes a lot to win in this life.

It takes a lot of crochet to stitch together supermarket aisles.

I bring my own tiles,

            to the fury of Jenga.

It’s your turn, move your axis.

Move your fortress: from Forfar to fortress, I am moving mountains.

From the Cape to the Congo, I am shedding skin like a fucking mutant,

            twisting and turning.

And it is time to begin (I place the whisky on your lips, you take it on your tongue);

to taste the poison to let the river run,

             over your castle.

I love you, baby, I love you.

I am the button on your shoes,

The steel cap on the British brogue, and I birthed the world

              just to let it go.

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