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The Scrap~Metal Helicopter

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One by one, I'm eliminating my enemies;
Few still remain — but they're weak.
The stronger ones are dead, and I've
buried them with my own hands,

I must protect my treasure: the well!
It's dark, it's terrifyingly lonely — yet
there are hidden waterfalls
deep in its chest; I climb down
like a bat, by its walls. . . there are alleys,
secret passages that lead from chamber
to chamber, to uncharted
territories — there are deeper wells,
wells within wells — that contain
fountains of purer nectarine
water (that bestow eternal youth);

The well is a dark cosmos.
I love my cosmos. I will not sell it—
Not even to Thanos;
I'll secure its key in a password~protected
vault.

I pass my daytime
in the dark well, exploring — by the nights,
I work in my shop: I'm building a helicopter
(from scrap metals). I must stay prepared
to fly — all hell will break
loose — in this desert — the Third World War
will be fought; then Fourth, then Fifth, then
Sixth: rifles and machine~guns will tear
and pierce the red flesh of humans.

They will fight for the oilfields —
not for my well.

If ever — after years and after
births (in unknown countries) — I shall again
come here, sit by the entrance of this well, and retrieve
the password.
If I could not retrieve, I shall read this poem
and try to remember the name
Of the horses that my father, the
madman king, cherished in a Pacific island. The sixth one was
lost at a very early age — its name
was "Balance", and can be still seen
on Twitter, on its profile page.

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