the public doesn’t know what to think of you, spook faggot. it
doesn’t think of you that way. you lie ass-up on the slab
of its mind, the image a mote passing tacitly out of light, less than
dead weight, though you are surely dying as if
dying is your duty to country. spook. you queen out
on main streets of ghost towns, sword-dancing prototype
propelled toward doom: black puddle bordered in the sketch of
ancient deaths — floatless, diminutive, exoskeletal residua —
still life of body with circumference of bodies —; puddle reflecting
nothing of use to a milk-dipped narcissus. skull of faggot
in the alley, blown purple on the bricks, is a kiss, is a ks
lesion. gun hot on the lips like lips. fucked as gender.
fucking to live. fucking appalling. the public pales
and pales you like meat in the wolf maw, snatches the tongue
out from under and dresses its windows in your shade. spook,
what is your color scheme? faggot: floral printed in fist blood
bloom. spook: bullet riddled, sifting air overhead for clues.
what’s black and red and red all over? the public
drops its hand from the ear where it had what it thought
was the decency to whisper.
**via the Offing**