What It’s Come To

Outside of love’s
little yellow windows,
we only harvest each other for parts.

The war kids wade through the streets,
surviving. One by one
in a chain like a moan,
the bursts of breaking glass.

A cord of stacked arms.
A conveyor belt of Young Pussies (TM)
bleeding in boxes.  Datestamped.

Children’s eyes, their laughter—
fueling every last light bulb in the city.

Their pressed grease fueling
limousine fleets. Fast as sound.

It’s come to: we won’t come to.
We built this in daylight,
yawning towards fantasies.

Oh look, it’s raining rifles!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s