Dada
before Midnight
A dadaist before midnight comes to play
his hands around my neck
what happens at midnight I ask
he can or will not say
his lips sewn together
in a heavenly smile
a dadaist before midnight comes
putting a finger to his torn-apart lips
dripping blood from his mouth
by the light of a three-ring circus
a dadaist gives me needle and thread
his mournful song of love
a unique interpretation
while I sew his lips
into a Marilyn Monroe pout
a dadaist changes sex
coos at me
when my needle pierces her flesh
accuses me of rape
while strangling me
shoots innocent bystanders
who go to her aid
cooing as each bullet strikes flesh
turning back to me
to take my last breath
with her icy, mechanical hands
she loses interest
in this serious act
sighing she says
I was born from the absurdity of war
now I am more relevant than before
this annoys me –
everyone now knows that life is absurd
I will live out my life as a bird
she flew off into an umbrella
and a fatal encounter with a sewing machine
as she expired I could swear
a brittle smile
cracked the edges of her lovely beak
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