16/30

the crest flowers

the branches roll their sides inwards to the vessels

the mob is grasping into the depths, reaching through screams and the vocal tendons, they roar into lion paws and jackals, chimerae maw anger built on lack of education

hollow words on the pulpits, hollow words in the street, hollow words on the electronic screens and all the malice you’d like, they are carrying toe torches into her chambers

the fires beneath older money and the crumbling thrones, the white tide is returned, blooming a bloodwake from the desert of ash, flipping the kill switch, metal hordes ride out into the skies, dark’ning the sun and lacerating the earth’s heart, her seeds exploding beneath the soil and eaten by the grounds,

the future is living in the brains, sitting idly by the machine lover,

blacking out on the weekend and knitting apathy into the soot of bowls

lost are the best of days, when the roots grew from our father’s fingers,

carried forward on the backs of those they could easily ignore

there is anger in sight, deep on the horizon, broiling the lakes and

drowning the seas in fish gut foolishness, belching the clouds and we

are too late now

the river is high water and our blood is

too thick to move

we statue,

we like rock, &

we worn

to the bone

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