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Chris Saitta Jun 2020
Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.
basil Jun 2020
nosebleed
black heart
making paper mache knives
sitting on pottery thrones
cause we're the reigning water
falling from the
quilted sky
feeling... artificial.

06.12.2020
Pagan Paul May 2020
.
An eagle lands,
as an Empire falls
into the dust of history,
its eye catches the sunset
and it takes to its roost.
Buildings smoke
and climbers climb.
The remnants of what was
clings on hopelessly
seeking to avoid the future.
The eagle closes its eyes
focusing on one lost image.
A fading dream
as the bird of freedom
slips meekly into a coma.
And the serpent of control
oozes in to replace common sense,
tightening the noose
that strangles the eagles legacy.


© Pagan Paul (22/05/20)
.
YusufKudsi Jan 2020
A riot started in my kingdom once I laid my eyes on your beautiful face.
I built the strongest walls around my heart,
Titanium and chromium walls,
Yet you found a way to get into my castle.
How many empires did you burn with that smile?
Will you turn mine into ashes or will you treat it as yours.
Chris Saitta Aug 2019
Moon of Pythagorus, such proofless arithmetic derived,
No sigmoidal curves or cold calculus of the divine,
But pale barbarian, war-bringer of straight lines,
Your sea drifts commandeered like lit ash-spears in line,
Or the thrashing of wind-whipped rags of horses’ manes.
Moon of Pythagorus, the phantasms of your campfires
Of waiting armies flicker like fireflies along the stream.

Burn me, Moon, with your fire-tongued spears,
Your haunt of horses, unbridled and reared,
Burn an eye through my heart like the oculus of the Pantheon,
So I can see my pulse beat against the ash of naked footsteps
Of those who make false shrine to me.
Yes, Rome...
Chris Saitta May 2019
The dead lie like Rome,
Like toppled sunshine in stone,
From a boy who had blown
Into the seashell of the Forum,
Heard back in restoning, the alley of home,
The narrow, basket-flowered angiportum…
But, lips too strong, let out unknown
The stone-witherings of Medusa
And the bone dust of empire.
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