You can kill a phone line / shear the string that stems from rust
sticky-bottomed tin can that sits in the bone in the hand sat
where the tin jagged, where a grin opens a knuckle an airy glancing
but shear it anyway, bloody on this end, bloody on that. Battle-done.
That is. Don’t talk to gods. Don’t put your ear to the source / code not
or open up the voice door where words get in and change
biome to spell. Don’t read aloud the formula of a virus if you don’t want
to be a virus. Don’t say its vows and sing / all night / your friends
were on the velvet crest of a spring-damp hill and their names
were just sitting there fresh / animals stole them / all night,
new cells out on release from your gown and rails. From so many
syringes you lost count. I mean I, I lost count the needle
had been in me such a really long time. And then I went under.
I didn’t have an agriculture to ask where I’d been. Not have to answer /
my phone / to anyone or to say my name correctly any longer than that.
I was down there / longer than that. Harpies came out of my ribcage and sometimes
a species would drip down on me cuz people killed it machines and bad ideas.
Or sometimes / a gust of hot wind on the wrong day portent but my lines were dead.
I shut magic’s face so it wouldn’t call my name or out me.
I shut it like a box you can fuck with but you can’t.