Again, alive. No good. No good cursing your eyes their function. That your heart survived another night less luck, more, stubborn rebuke to the revisionist thread of airbrushed policy. Walk, when the whistle blows, as the shift changes from red to murder and gather us all around the dead bag, dog shit bats hanging in the sidings. Too much to see with closed eyes picking out the sighs of a cruciform girl, ragged in her dull bright. That the suckling couldn't breathe, lying unwanted in it’s need,
is clear to the brethren crippled now beyond correction, bequeathed, betrothed, un-ironed and torn. High limbed furniture leaves me sitting stingily, of late, legs tucked in amputated secrecy, par-boiled in a naked wait for swaddling and sudden promises. Promises that will be sure to report of the unidentified litigant unfolded beneath the wheels of egress, will sell you your own blood, yet punctuate your demands as nothing. Nothing but a liquid stance truncated along a steel grated edge. The monuments weren't destroyed they simply fell while we slept leaving those who subscribe to pause, rewind and watch again and again, cradled in the comforting whisky wink of predictive sex.