Yank the headlines,
They're just vintage tape disguised;
Force the months to run to you,
Unspool like tired ribbons in your cupped palms.
Be generous with the scissors,
Rip apart the snippets that candy the truth,
Commit glamour-shot genocide to avoid
That little green glint of jealousy in your eye-
It's a useless emotion, and time will fly
Quicker without it nipping your ankles-
But pull them, beat their crawl into a sprint
And if they won't come,
Commission extra strength from the wind
Until you're gurgling ink and it's everywhere,
Political names that mean less to you now
Heaving their last breaths on your fingertips
Like tired wasps drowned in honey.
Pull until Doomsday is splattered across your window
And the fruit is rotting in its bowl
And the frenzied radio is yelling
Like a banshee the slogan
That puts a layer of ice into your liver-
History repeats itself
And the blood runs like a river.
not/the/news
