crash and burn

as a pilot, you are brave,
but reveal yourself, let honorifics slip
off kamikaze shoulderblades

and where the body should be
there's an opalescent blur: unknown to yourself,
you.

the black box harbouring your contents
is a phantom. somewhere on the plane, it hides
the bit of context that could break paralysis

and let the curious hydra head rise
regnant. so won't you seize the impulse? crash; crash casually;
they might never see for

there's no chance of grasping
the butchered birth cord, no hope
of survival known. but you're a brave one, after all.

so don't tell them. don't let the scribes take you down
and don't let scrawled clones become flowers on the grave,
your grave approaching.