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/

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