Red water pours over the floor,
his head a running faucet.
His face a crimson mesh
through which the fluid drips.
The man across from him enters a trance
guided by the tap
the tap
the tapping on the floor.
He runs one hand along the handle
and one thumb across the sledge-head.
Bile runs up his throat
and into his mouth
and spills and taps
and taps
and taps on the floor.
Red is water, gold is bile.
The third man stands in the corner,
looking on as he traces
the black sun patch beside his uniform’s
blue and yellow stripes.
“Ride of the Valkyries” plays
on a broken
broken
broken record.
Oil trickles down the player
meeting a heap of black powder.
The last living men
bite down on their capsules.
Cyanide leaks through the broken
the broken
the broken plastic.
Another winter glaciates the doorless room.