Poetry: 2 Poems by Lennart Lundh
Post-Apocalyptic Haute Couture
Yeah, we'll all be dressed in black,
tight leather head-to-toe day and night.
It'll be hot as hell in the burning sun,
under the ozone-layer-barren sky.
Sticking to our wounds as they ooze
will be no problem: We're tough, badass.
Did you ever think why suburban women,
with fifty shops to choose from,
and a car to get them there easily,
garden in shorts and halter tops?
Don't forget the tanker's headwear
or the shiny insect-android helmet.
And the full-face mask's a must,
so no one will tell if you're friend or foe
and your chances of survival will drop
no matter the size of your gun.
Really, assuming you didn't plan ahead,
have a wardrobe stashed in the bunker,
how many cosplay and Harley shops
do you think will be open on Sunday?
Mekong Delta Identity Blues
as a Brief American Senryu Sequence
we came in guns hot
over stained glass paddy fields
breaking each sweet pane
into orange fragments
roiling in black clouds of smoke
with blood red highlights
peasants or charley
who the fucking hell could know
their wrong place wrong time