Goodnight poet.
He was shot by his own hand
And his poem was death.
He had clouds in his pocket
Blue ones.
White ones red ones..
Spoke with a team
And climbed with a jet
Swore exhaust and smoke….
Spoke with a punch
Suicided and drank..
Kissed Lenin and Marinetti.
Flared and faded
Calling out with a engine lung
Pulling a trigger…
Bang
Pushkin knows the rest..
Malcolm Paul
.