it must always be the living that die that
burn. that dutton rat that rat singing to rats
singeing cats. two dud buttons for eyes let
me count the ways that i would –
you know a politician cannot burn
they’re sprayed together from asbestos, old ash &
footrot. only the dis-possessed can sustain flames.
each layer of them removed – old stories. morrison
looks out his open top buttonhole like a schoolboy
mischievously cutting the genitals off the other children,
trading them for extra snacks in the lunch break.
i will decide on the razors to store on my body i will
hold my breath to hug you, those ghouls in the back room
joking another one bites the dust knowing they are the dust,
sticking splinters in your eyes, yeses echoing onwards
hold the rats in your mouth hold your nose they scurdle down.
we’ll keep saying the word dutton until it wears you down &
there’s nothing left, the name naming only a name, no
abject behind it, petrified gaze becoming dust you were and
dust you shall become, coughing in the face of the parliament
the like cures the like, the death cures the dead.



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