Mayhem

pero si muore . . .

“I like the story as well as when you told it “

Gunship blades beat at the horizon 
behind his eyes.Silence in the calm 
blue sky before the death spray distills
a shrill of air soaked in casual slaughter.

His mouth, spun into cloth, holds to the black 
groundwater. Tongues wretch in patriotic vernacular 
Nights squeezed into cynical correspondence. An 
erudition of such easy death writes itself in callous 
shorthand; inescapably. 

His mind slides off the dining table of ideologues 
into the incandescent graves. ‘HUMAN’ embroidered 
blue to the hurt, a note to himself; skindeep, the length 
of his bicep.

To stave off madness and to forget their starvation, speechless 
women, walk opiatestones of their dead men and boys. In this 
amphitheatre of mayhem, their glazed gaze, an epistolary human 
shroud.  

The scrawl that would assuage poisoned vellum, sells a more than
counterfeit God versed in lurid archeology of killing. It lures death
by soul - by the inch.

---

First published in Bullshit.IST 2016