cannot repeat the act. the bones will not grow together again and
the personality will not come back. she is going to sink deep into the
moss to get white and lighter. she is unresponsive to begging and
self absorbed.
An opposition man is chased through his town and shot in a
smelling trap. people come to poke live fingers through the holes in
him. they look at their fingers to divine whether they will be shot.
they shrink and swell and run to hunt the president of the nation
who is the trapper.
light goes through branches to show two children born once
who might live. the mother ran from every hazard until the babies
eased onto the leaves. with both hands she brings them to her mouth,
calling them twice the usual answer to mortal questions. she is
delightful and milky so they will not want to grow.
blood goes in the tube because you want to fuck. pumping does not
murder but feels like it. you lose your worrying mind. you want to
die and kill and wake like silk to do it again.
People go to the river where it is lush and muddy to shoot captives,
to float or sink them. shots kill men who always want. someone
imagined or saw them leaping to savage the government. now bodies
dive and glide in the water, scaring friends or making them furious.
blood keeps going in outer space until you forget. its streams in a line
from the killed container that had a mind. there is no material to
soak and no memory nearby. frenzy pools in you, loser, flying
upside down. the champion giggles through every possibility and
evolves singing.
you create an incident to bring the fury down. your fighters blow
fingers and more in ten directions. round crowds form, transfixed
by the dead. panic and belated love take all the space in brains, and
the people left alive are glad to be full. no one ever knows what to
do. you fire again, and people are great enough.
you spit on them because the taste left on your teeth excites. you
showed hope all over your face for years and then killed them in the
interest of time.