Smoke blooms in this uncouth air.
This is your garden
Of dust, fire curling
Into make-up upon their faces–
you smoothen out their bones into the ground.
Holes web asinine across rust.
This is your home
Littering the square, ashes aflurry
Smearing their shut eyes unfurl–
you scab for their bloody disuse.
Missiles are scrawled in celebrities’ names.
This is the drugged resent
Of Summer Ecstacy, Justified bells in curve
Where bullets blind them for triumph–
you cry for them and they stare without you:
Soldiers Trample For Your Liberation;
Ministers Guillotine For The Greater Safety;
Pockets Burst For Our Profit;
And your mothers ladle is glass
And your siblings cradle is melted
And your friend’s fable is a sheared watermelon
And You
A number A conspiracy A Nothing
And
you
nothing, for now. for i must find solace in my suffering i must i must im should must capture beauty love me in the midst of the this
Bloodshed.