minotaur at the
water’s edge,
end of winter, a
direct hit
the days all laid
out in
delicate tangled
webs of
silence &
despair and
fear is a weapon,
yes,
but not yours
the hands can be
broken,
the heart pulled out
the children can be
made to sing
show them their
mother on fire
let them see the
humor in human
misery
all of these fuckers
who will
tell you that
they’re not
monsters, and what
they all
have in common is
that
they’re monsters
all of these gods
demanding your
obedience
your money
you call it politics
or
you call it religion
and
either way
you bleed
No comments:
Post a Comment