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Thorn

July 8, 2017

onehundredandsixtysix

We die on plains of stone.
Drowned in white plastic.
Eaters of the dead.
Soft, wet fat slides off the bone.
The radios hurl static into the air.
Voices within vacant buildings.
Transmissions on reel to reel tape.
In tiled labs, bunkers.
Back rooms bathed in piss-yellow light.
Paper curls and begins to burn.
Ashes in your mouth.
Words will not buy freedom.
You must forget everything you ever learned.

The highways, off ramps, slip roads.
Knots of noose-like, jerking traffic.
Lead out to the slaughterhouse.
Then back into the ports.
Prowled along their radius.
By what the shark mouth spat free.
Sick by design.
Engineered to fail.
The slough of the lumbering beast.
Whose back bursts the clouds.
Whose breath poisons the lake.
Its call is the scream of a star.
Collapsing in on itself.

Canals sidle.
By rusted cathedrals.
Slink past the waters of resurrection.
With bowed heads.
Take carrion and cloth.
Perfume and face cream.
To those with nothing left.
In a bar.
Barely a room.
Sleepless wraiths.
Whisper songs under their breath.
To the smoke and stained wood.

Quiet forests of needles.
Spitting blood and saline.
Where barefoot figures.
Pale as mist.
Wander hand in hand.
Play plague games.
Guilty as naked children.
Swap half formed desires.
And hang them on prosthetic limbs.
Ribbons for your thinning hair.
Roses for your bitter heart.
In the shade of someone else’s grief.
Lay down and fade away.
Peace is a sky.
In which the Godhead.
Has gone forever blind.

 

 

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From → Poetry

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