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!

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