She Was a Cook at War

Do you cook fine traps of needles and glass shards?
why is it always the fast that seem original?
why is it always your pronoun that gleans intimacy?
why is your constituency reeling?
what is it like to be thunder
or the argument?
an actor that aged well in a single take
taken in a smoke filled dusty room
with a scent of Christmas and singed wrappings
and dried olives and flames of a corrugated bin
be together, 
been, No
I am missing help

Why is it always the fast that plan scenarios?
keeping whole divisions warm and electrical
troops perform wars, rock and roll boy
orange smoke, a crayon bomb
morbid, morbus or just plain silly
the public betterment that led sensibility adrift
her midrif is sandbags
clogging waves, angles of cleanlier personality and finite meme
men in the tax room with archived confetti booming
when you read that circumcised page at the quarry
and a poem that failed to actualise
thats the fast feeling, a chicken hawk and doomsday
when you took your cook hair out with finite trappings. 

PoetryQuinton Farrow