Saturday, November 07, 2015


Five points on the map. Five days
You watch your city burn.
Five A.M. Five cops at the door.
Interpret that. No city is built again
Your map a declaration, a trap, a war.


Divination. Inhuman fears of the people
This distance, an arrangement of songs
scattered on the capital, a set of laws
to kill the living. Rhymes, this distance.
Ruins are barricades. Songs are bones.


Our maps, almost, are conspirators
all night awake, questioning the sky
Comets, also, are bones. Are waiting
to crash our adventure. Days pile up
Like collapsing towers. Cops. Bone.

crossed out Bakunin. wrote down five cops.
5 a.m. - a charm to consume the capital.