Monday, August 19, 2013


It's a blood mask, behind which.
A dead star, whose coffin won't close.
The invention of money, in broad daylight.
It's the failure of love, in the face of
magnified obstacles.  And the total,
street-sucking cowardice that will
look away from it.

It's an ornamented galaxy, drifting
into the cut-out.  A place where
hatred goes to thrive, without
even fighting.  It's habits in bodies
sneering at other habits.  And
the gutter of plastic spirits,
that no blade ever cut a shape from.
It's an utterly dead religion,
all its gridwork intact,
for a few lifetimes longer.

It's a field of dream-pickers,
who stow to throw away,
in a vacuum of self-conscious privacy.
It's a slavemaster, in slavery,
a fuel that burns without disappearing.
For a few lifetimes longer:
it's a blood mask, behind which
nothing precious lingers.

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