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by Gabriel Shaffer

there’s an old man in my bones, praying for a plague..
with eye sockets as deep as shot gun barrels, i am
looking down the throats of my ancestors, while
vestigial sidebands speak through the suspended faces in the trees..

the destruction insect controller watches us when we sleep..
through a tangled web of 15,000 cameras..
god steals painted bullets and pixilated pills and
photo realistic stares..
telephone taps echo byproducts of vanishing memory..
in a free atom burn of fiber optic violin spine..

a figure eight tapeworm is lit like an unwinding fuse..
the shimmering street snake crawls across the ceiling
underneath our feet..
shedding its numbers..
far from below the holy whores and ambulance wolves
blow computer generated flames..
at the speed of night the lines tessellate with a violet surrender..

as this city swallows the light with its canceling kiss..
sunscratched blue horizon..
across my avenue..
tennis shoe squeak..
feeds the leaves..
smashes window shutters..
her limbs are cannons dropping about me..
i can smell the moths you think are wind up angels,
like ashes lifting from the great fuckwound..
i watch you modulate your mechanisms loose..
like mad robot monkeys hungry for a suicide pact..

the page hums with a sub-quark swell..
skin folding in upon itself..
smearing mud in the cameras eyes..
the apocalypse will occur during rush hour..

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