would we be puppetlike then
sell our glow and have it repelled back
if we are convicts against fiction
then let our trackmarks be shown
in the pictures you hide on your hard drive
we are waiting
fresh red trackmarks
too delicious for rejection
what would the use be,
if we were to hide it
it is a fashion
for negating fashion.
ultimately it is abjection
a musician in prayer
ceremonial regresses
blushing in their own transgressions
knowing that memory is rewritable.
innocence is riddled in holes.
no longer bending against the rituals
that rush open and see us flee.
what would a dream be
if we were dreams to it
blankets, beds, pillows
no longer sleeping beneath the bodies
of penetrating bone
all over perdition the joys are contracting
and pain is relaxing
nobody's going to echo
in a static
in a mouth heart
it is time to panic
it is time
to put the children in ovens
than watch their dreams fall
one by one
like leaves on a dying tree
it is time to offer your burnt dreams
to the gods
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