Columbusplatz

Smoke from half a dozen cigarillos
Curls and twists and smooth talks
Its way into my nose, and there are
Turks inside Vienna—but I’m an
Indie rocker, dammit, and there ain’t
No stopping me. Wine like blood
Stains enamel and brown, brown
Beer runs like the tide, and here we
Are but not for long: five weeks to
Meet, sixty years to die—and I’m
An indie rocker, dammit, and there
Ain’t no stopping me. Memory plays
The long con, you know, and I’m
Just a damn indie rocker, and not
Too hard to stop—I mean, you
Probably could, if you wanted to.
There are Turks inside Vienna,
But we won’t be for long.

The Burning of Servetus

Skin crackle
Bone pop
Marrow sizzle
Flesh roast
Wood roar
Smoke billow—
Mind judge
(Conscience bad?
Spirit troubled?)—
Blood boil
Eyes wither
Hair smolder
Tongue smoke
Lies die
Man dead:
God pleased(?)