Lithe as breath—
the flame bends
never breaks—
a matchstick’s dance
poised on ash.

back to the masterplan   to the **** grown crop                  
                  chop-chop    food tinned for the great red heist
the pawn heads   duds stringing out the gross termination
growing the bomb pocked sod with ashes                    
                            fertile with calcium phosphates

growing history fascist-faced                          
  no space for art  love and earning yourself
mal-educate       no learning to learn
back to the masterplan    no time to explain
just be a sport   and don't dare complain

To look upon oneself
And find a citadel of half-wrought
Miseries and wounded passions
Where the birds all wore masks
Of hide and gleaming fixtures

Birds that enter upon a pile
Of stiff and tangled limbs
With heads, mouth open
Groaning cries of
Pain, as their teeth are torn
Collected to create nests
In which those enamel buds
Burst into seamless streams
Of bloodied skin

Curving together, crossing to form
A twisted leather medusa
That blooms rusted buckles
Which glisten in the sky above that citadel
In the place of stars for those citizens
To pray between a leviathan chorus of agony.