Still bad whale song

I done crying all night
in my dotage or gouched out
on the Japanese bed.
Cyprus was lovely
but then the ridiculous cliffs
and my worst birthday ever.

The wine glass eking
like the noise of the DC-3 Dakota
with the targets on its wings
then still bad whale song
all through the party
for the end of the second European war:
bananas and French toast.

Seeming half-cut, I walk
dangerously to myself on the roads
like the way mud schleps
your rough boot then, thigh-handed,
you come clean out
with bubblegum sounds.

My vein is tip-top and running rivers
in reverse. The Mohne dam
has already been repaired
after the bombs that were built to bounce
like toddlers. The doctor is on my side
when I tell him a story
about the ridiculous cliffs.

There is such a thing as a war baby.
My wife and I have discovered
myself on the Japanese couch
and her parents so proud.
The grown-up baby and the sound
of permanent unmanned radio frequencies.