the madness in the dirt
is not for inhaling
nor is it for the summer nights

the flask with brown water
is not for kissing
nor is it for the aching neck

i searched for lovers in the trenches
but found only bits of serpent teeth

i searched for friends to drag my tired corpse
but found only a serpent with yellow teeth

the monotone persistence of cheap desire
pollutes the purity of my proud pain
reminds me of mushroom soup over winter fire
and long walks in the trenches with a grenade