Whose Grip Undid the Screws
i fuck around a lot with the idea of identity,
it’s like pissing on a sacred cow while the
village sleeps and dreams of simple things/
grey as pain, the rules upon which reality
itself is guarded by the armies of the roots
whose consummate butchery has wrenched
the doors of death from the skeleton of
what had held the building up/ it’s a lot like
guerrilla warfare where every afternoon
attends multiple machine gun quests of rearranging
rust in this stillness that will pluck your eyes whose
visions of the slaughterhouse grappling with its hooks
lifts you up by your testicles so potent in the dark with
the whispers and the shadows of your second selves
and hungry for the memory of a face wrung of every drop
of you are who we say you are/ you are you cannot be an
audience of the dead in this field of temple priests whose
grip undid the screws/