pero si muore
Gunship blades beat at the horizon behind his eyes.
Silence in the calm blue sky before the death spray distills
a shrill of air soaked in casual slaughter.
His mouth, spun into cloth, holds to the black groundwater.
Tongues wretch in a vernacular of patriotism and squeeze nights
of cynical correspondence. Erudition of such easy death writes
itself in callous shorthand; inescapable. His mind slides off
the dining table of ideologues into the incandescent graves
beneath: ‘HUMAN’ embroidered blue to the hurt, a note to himself.
Skindeep, the length of his bicep.
In the surround of this amphitheatre of mayhem, to stave off
madness and to forget their feet, speechless women, walk opiate
stones of their dead men and boys. Their glazed gaze, an epistolary
human wall of war by their simple dying.
The scrawl sells a counterfeit God versed in its lurid archeology
of killing, that would assuage poisoned vellum. By the inch.
written 2012.
