Wednesday, April 02, 2014


 in the days of our fiercest anger

the precision of beauty
the joy    of the whole world

soaked bread    in their darkness
enemies pressed their mouths on us

& a snare is come among us
& there is none to comfort us

the rich dead
their rich dead friends


What does it mean. That we are their music.

This city is nameless mist. Is stones and stars.

Not this.


Of music imprisoned, the insulted and truly wretched.
Of the names of those responsible for the massacres.

A screed against fear and circles, of dials and calendars, co-ordinates and counter-maps.
On the numerology of birdsong. On riot replaced by birdsong. Persecutors swifter than eagles.

They pursued us on the mountains. Laid wait for us in the wilderness.


For the last two years, a hole in the ground, we walked counter-clockwise.
That’s right, tell us one more fucking time about them shooting the clocks in the Commune.
For the last three days, fascism.

Breaking news, different emphasis. And our collective vowels humming like drones.
What are you talking about, the invisibles.
As if they didn’t hover above us. Announce themselves with blue fire.


The law is a mouth.

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