Tony Kitt Poems

Dead warriors of the wind;
their eye sockets
full of typography...
...

I kill you by naming you.
Because people are all breath.
If one speaks against autocrats,
his autobiography will be kept
...

Women are flying trees
wandering hands of the world

Crosses dream of becoming ladders
...

Life you've been wading through, its
calligraphy... The boulders behind your back
practice the baby smile of footballers.
You collect church seashells, you invite
...

In the vacuum of the moment, I accosted Prokofiev's metronome. Two walking billboards floated by, both depicting Stalin, with an inscription saying 'Elect one, get another free.'
'Rhythm... you can find it everywhere, even in your breakfast statistics, ' the metronome finally ticked out. 'It governs us communistically, and is rather crunchy. Taste it.'
Prokofiev's octofingers were making music of survival, his eyes sparkling with mindquirks. The weather man was bathing inside his liquid baritone. Stalin's portrait waved to the frame it had left behind and occupied the sky.
...

A red-tinted movie
of my address book:
houses collapsing,
people going into exile,
...

A man goes to the post office
to consign his flattened heart
to a voice in the receiver.
...

A tree asked a man: Why is your winged body
butterflied on the ground?
Who do you slave for
when the time is half past piffle?
...

Endless, reality approaches me
the way Thanatos comes for a mortal:
not in person.
...

I once emigrated
from Jules Verne to Sir Walter Scott.
The wild beasts of my mind cages
...