Whip

The remains of iron frigates, rusted.
Ten miles inland.
Swept by plagues of chromium ticks.
Roaming the bleached dunes.
In search of salvage.
Bone or lead.
Salt or oil.
Their wishbone legs clicking.
Beneath a pale and splintering sun.
Whilst shrouded, withered figures.
Cower amongst the rocks.

Silver worms churn.
Cracking at the knuckle.
A mulch of liquid putrefaction.
Of mud and bile and blood and hair.
Crusted by the baking heat.
They swim in the veins of rotting giants.
The roots of charcoal trees.
Severed heads.
On neon pikes.
Weep and laugh.
And wail and sing.
Tears dribbling down waxy cheeks.
Sleepwalking through mercury dreams.
As the needle is slid in.
Turned like a knife.
And current run through the copper wire.

The Company sold us to freedom.
Told us that we should be free.
But if freedom is found.
In the ribs of a whale.
Feed me back to the machine.

When the gates were opened.
And the flesh fell forth.
Vomited upon the earth.
A tumorous mass of gears and skin.
We were called to kneel.
To touch our lips to poisoned soil.
Mendicants in silk and furs.
And from this locus.
Carried out.
To each compass point.
Like four sick horses.
Foamy mouthed.
Grinding teeth.
Was the blind control.
The lunatic order.
Of Hell’s chaos engine.
And now life and death are abstracts.
Nothing more.
Prayers to painted gods.