myob

fold my mobschlag textile inward the land in the patchwork firestick dumblines i call that violence do you call that deathswirl split my gut like a duck before the fireworks his chestrug goes up like a historical conflagration this generation has to go home watch the tent ignite the pigs in blankets do you call this violence call my bluff – rock on mutitude! they be wanton a bruising political krassheit halt even most slapping hands somebody grab the black-box blanket and the smoothedout pillow it goes over the mouth remember to chew the socks fatdack peking is not at breaking point yet where is the thumb-ruler the princess shoe the unmeasured heritage the too-light daybreak my prefab wordart portmanteau ID blanket. where’s the jim crow scare crow now in this ever other greyday trylight unripe strawberry slagback in the hangdog graveyard no gold bricks in our pavement, knocking out the dividual teethbars in the luna mouth mark an ex in every desert symmetry everybody is on everybody it’s corpus mentis all the way down to the cellar where we hung (out/with) all the lightswallowers i call that siolence.

This entry was posted in flight, homelands, language(s), oz politics, poetry, prose/. Bookmark the permalink.

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