The name was not Antonin Artaud. Nor was it Sophie Scholl. Not even Walter Benjamin, or any number of others, disappearing backwards into what we once called history, or fairy, or meathook. It could be the names of people, or entire countries, planets, paranormal phenomena. All were scooped up, left in secret sites just outside the map. The invisible, indelible marks of the border where meathook is a tranquil word, and real names are withheld and made irrelevant.
said 2019 to 1933
you the cutest massacre
I ever did see
the rats are in the corner
the baby’s in the sack
they took them to the lost and found
they’re never coming back
the rats are on the table
the baby’s on the sill
they’ll stay that way forever
till we do the fascist’s will
the fascist is the ferryman
from the stolen to the lost
it knows the words for everything
the baby knows the cost
the fascist is the ferryman
its boat is going down
into the seas that bind the world
of the living to the drowned
we’ll be this way forever
the rats are in the sack
vengeance is a pretty word
fight them back
*
We count the coming of the debt. The persecutions. Our enclaves boarded up, even those of the past. It feels as if the only inhabitable places left in the city are its songs, the forgotten ones and the sad ones. The sounds they begin to make when listening has been made impossible. The sounds they make are destitute and eerie. The names of the nameless, the holes in their necks, running toward us. Their mouths on backwards. Their language clear.
says Mother Goose to the Fairy Mab
old London Town is a Frankenstein Lab
that feeds the greedy and shelters the rich
and burns the poor and I can’t stand to finish this
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