holding the weapon asking you to step down
holding the fish the fashion the club the bushknife
someone has fallen there are spun sheets spunned
the bodies giving slightly in the dark the polis hold
ing the arm the lower leg cutting our teeth rubbing
a face against the mesh we saw it come down from
on high and it was rectitude, it was the right, it was
right there, we couldn’t recognise it for the wounds
the path had smudged over. the angels leave no
footprint backing off from the catastrophe, asking
the assailant to put down the arms. the forms are
looser than before, they have no history. the violence
is a myth it is mythic. the mirth is violent, is violet, is
mauve, lilac, wisteria, bluerain, jacaranda, heliotrope.
swirling and mottling on the flesh, more blood spills
from the neck, transferring to the soil, mulberry,
blackberry, jamming the sign, tasting the paste, and
discerning a direction. passioning, the Byzantium,
bleating before the announcements, there is no
comment to make, just cement on the sand on the livers.

This entry was posted in bureaucracy, expulsion, flight, homelands, massacre, oz politics, poetry, violence. Bookmark the permalink.

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