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Gash

July 1, 2017

onehundredandsixtyfive

Billboards shiver.
Beneath sheets of icy rain.
Bleed the paint.
From 30ft starlets.
Synthetic dolls of sick beauty.
Joyless things.
Into which pins are driven.
For hatred or hope.
By those that thrash beneath insect bites.
Skinned by vanity.
Blue lipped, still and staring.
Suffocated by plasma.
The eyes wide in terror.
The iris flecked with violet.
Telling sewn mouth secrets.
Heresies of loneliness, melancholy and ineffable sorrow.

The crowd flocks.
Like blood in a circuit.
Home.
Work.
Entertainments.
An animal driven between bread and the circus.
Feet splash in puddles.
Petrol spectrum water.
Rainbow smoke rising.
To a sky.
Where starlight.
Slaughtered by neon and sodium.
No longer shines in the gutters.

Empty as a sabbath hour.
In pitch.
Lit by deep sea phosphor.
Swim the proto-machines.
Pink and plastic marionettes.
Strung and propelled.
By satellites.
Across the empty roads of a starved Earth.
Bearing payloads of dust and sex.
Between their bowed legs.
They screech at skies of liquid crystal.
But they no longer have a mouth.

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From → Poetry

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