Washington Sweating Blood On The Bill

All that we’ve known falls into a puddle
where microbes fission, grasp, and perish,
a measuring tape counting useless spoils
spinning its way in a garden of light.

At night, we turned into parasite tunnels.
At day, we labored in debt to the planet.
We called in futility across hidden rivers.
We followed the wind in its cheap machinations.

I wanted to meet you under Hecate’s mantle, torn by my sin
from the animals and plants, chlorophyll and blood
streaming out of my mouth, my castration scar
the only memory of my nuts.

Totems and obelisks crash against time,
our globs of resentment mimicking the world.
Unproductive orgasms stream like piss.
The dark lord boasts in the fires of the kitchen.