Brute Calligraphy
My sluggish lifeline dogcarts my hand, traces
the ink spreading across my palm. The oracle
measures the debacle, writes an open
letter to the scimitar pharmacies. We are sick
of your barren & listless caches, your sleepwalker
phenomenons. The sun falls & we assemble
our battalion of cadavers, our platoons of ligaments
& cadence, bronze medalists & found battleships.
Our desolate army with our steady diet of wormbread
& fermentation, we mongrel through the mud, look at
the scars fevering through our hands. We arrive at your holy
sites, prepared to plunder & pillage. Our arrival has been spelled
out in the ravaged cloth spun around our shoulders, spun
right down into the snow & the dirt. The tattered flags attached
to your outpost won’t the story. We won’t leave any mouths to seed
the soil, no soil to seed the sky.
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