Sorry / I wasn’t talking to you
but factory rhythms / your mouths
are not unbroken infernos
inside your personal numbers
in each of those numbers a starling
in each of its beaks a startled knife
sorry / we are not that knife
on the city’s outer circuit / frugal
& unbroken. This sentence was never
declared & is a used surface, a
geiger trap or love’s blunted blade
well screw that & the point of our face
is they screwed it shut. Things grow
The perimeter scratches are fearsome
ie the sentence was never declared but punctured, and the rings of the city are sharp metronomic traps, all of them stored in (1) the villages we burned (2) the impact sphere of (number) rubber bullets and feral longitudes all occupied by your local jobcentre, which of course its clients understand as, at best (3) Alan Sugar screeching in utter fear . . . .
1 comment:
This is fucking beautiful x
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