skonen_blades

Guillotines are born hungry
Nooses are the open mouths of baby birds
Swords are made to be thirsty
And the cold teeth of guns just won’t stop chattering
The applause of coffin lids closing
Is cheering the percussion
Of metal stitching meat
The instruments that open wide
Their oven mouths
To bring the ash of one-way trips
To round the population down
The axe is blameless
But it still shines so seductively
Promising easy power
Pledging quick change
Flexing ancient muscles
And even older reasons
While beautiful days continue
And trees grow
Ashamed hands turn red with embarrassment
And blood
Puppeted into revolutions
They want no part of




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It’s not that the underground rose up to swallow everyone in a worm mouth warehouse entrance air hangar disappearing trench.
It’s not that microphones everywhere became lightning rods.
It isn’t even that bleached hair burst into flame, turning every activist into a small nuke.
It’s more like a horse became a secretary.
It’s more like the Titanic and the Hindenberg had a baby who grew up to pretend to be Santa Claus to kids and God to adults.
The rescue isn’t coming.
The parachute isn’t packed.
There are no air bags and the car is swerving out of control on the wet road.
There is a future coming that will make us nostalgic for brush fires, for a time when we’d only had two nuclear wars, for a time when cannibalism was rare.
I’m no electric guitar but I can hear the writing on the wall.
Pure jelly beans.
My understoodness has not been ratified.
But I can kill a zebra with my right wing and a statue with my left.
Both wings flapping is the bird version of applause.
Dive into my ice cream.
And rot.



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