Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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Jordie Albiston

machine

it is a simple descent    down into the bowel of the black submarine
no men here but strange birds eye from uniform bunks & a uterine
past    watching us watching them    old regiment    stepping our way
through the secret machine we seek the cold belly of their maiden   

what thing gestates in a brass-pocked womb-pit what cargo inside
such bone    weighing hope for peace with an interest in hell we glide
to the weapons room    hard & white & all in a row here are the big
boys kamikaze actionmen ready to leap from us into them reporting

for duty    sir    we feel the pulse of this hidden canal & do our little
dance of repugnance    this descent is not simple this visit not a bit    
how we dreamed it    each heart here has long since flown each soft
breast each quivering wing has been clipped at the quick    how often

we weep at all this    (& blind-hooded strange birds steer their vast
nest through waters) (& gentle as a boy's mother the sad waters part)