Two mercenaries walk a road meant for one, dropping seedlings in the name of Sumer-Indian anarchist solutions, retaliation of the plant nursery prevails, depends on water exposure, to fill enough liquid in the chalice to clank goblets with the czarists, the botanists, the travelers whose every step through the mercantile forest remains labored, knowing each pace they take must be reciprocated back to doomsday. We do it differently, like nomads they say, without systems of government, roaming the Prussian backwoods on a garrison devoid of troops. The men are made of wood, good old-fashioned iron and blood-cells splotched across the inside of a red pine, a pound cake of amoebas flattened, pressed, called something it’s not, drowned in velvet ecstasies imported from Rhineland-Palatinate, the city where old women weep over World War letters (praying for a sequel is not in the show notes) they, used to the cold, accustomed to injustice, nestled in the nectar of dissatisfaction of what Napoleon I referred to as constitutional monarchy.
Hundred Days became Hundred weeks of winter warfare, stretching geopolitical game to a hunter’s effect. Killing a fierce predator in the snow ensures an icy cocoon, coffin shafted by European frostbit commissions, halls of polity, austerity as weaponry, panopticon of the frozen totem grand jury. For Narcotic Nicolai on the bench, restlessness replaces complacency, as he describes to the plaintiff in a voice full of emotionless, like a vaccine science guild, that the lethal infections of the future will have side effects capable of breaching human natural security. Droves of drogue parachutes de-robe in mid-flight as the Non-Asiatic Travelers base their careers off crossing bridges guarded by angels with porridge bowels then stead of halos, and War Resolutions replacing bow and arrows.
They leave behind bits and pieces of scorched firewood, the smell of old bookshops burning. Find the last edition of Civil Sedition now at your local groupspeak retreat. Please, speak freely. Splash those metal moccasins spiritedly through all the mud puddles in metropolitan history, oh dear his mustache is nearly entangled, his gravestone renounced to Dresden, his daughters dreading the burdens of infamy inheritance, but lord knows they know the lord meant for them to lead lives of public scrutiny, fair trade, being called ‘your grace’ for so long almost convinces them that they each wear identities in relation to petrol Egyptian spider-silk water walkers who, on the seas of the Scottish Rite, call out to whatever Norse god will listen that he or she is the most careless eukaryote carrier in the world.
Political malice knows no nationality. Sovereignty squashed when the fat lady croaks, or worse, swoons in a tone more fitting as a fall-out siren. Don earmuffs, or evolve so you mustn’t need to, pop stars from Club Heisenberg with stories of old tribe privacy codes, lawn chairs, personal diaries, antichrist lip smeared kisses in love lettered patterns, congregations on Sunday mornings bleakly cheerful, outside, pedestrian patrols on a pedestal for the same reason members of parliament have staircases in their homes; to climb above necessity, to build a nest of brevity, leaving dead laws there for the sacrificial chamber of Continental Congress to come claim. Raising foot above foot so the boot is not standing there on the human face, forever. Dawn’s ear ducts listen for the induction ceremonies of a virulent sun, skin tone Vincento. Wallpaper dementia. Demeanor like the cottages in Stalingrad. A collage in its purest form of 17th century agility courses, pass the Pascals, surpass Sir White-bearded General on the board of humble (indentured) service. The biosphere is a trend, so terraforlorning is the next integral step. Be mindful of environmentalism’s impact on the environment, and in the dead of winter, support Life’s final election.
In : Poetry