Poetry

Dystopian photo album

Buried in slough of immaculate lust
We wave off the iron-man model

Coughing up money and fake lottery tix
Ipso facto zippers and guylines,

Flysheets and groundsheets, door folds
And support poles, mosquito netting to keep

Blood supplies intact, and appease the vista.
Our business is to stroke your finest feeling –

Where did I hide that blanket
The one with the key of chrome dust

Sculptures for trade to the end of capitalist creep scene
Dig this remorse for it turns to blue love?

And dig this refusal outside the condensation
Of hunters sleeping with their firearms,

That killzone ventilation an act of denial,
Sway of trophied pencil towers the gnomonic

Of a jilted axis, the velveteen slippers –
Thus we stretched our tarp between rejoinders

Weird lights in the middle of the day
Who will feed the painted queen

Her sandwich of rats and rancid mung?
Said the rights co-ordinator and voice moderator,

Ensuring image compliance
And no comeback, this industry

Of signatures and tolerable feedback.
And we went down to the Glad Day festivities

On the banks of rerouted fictions
And took dollops of oxytocin,

Making underworlds of our sibilance
Which was never enough for the brokers,

Leaving us glistening with underexposure via
Signs on the lawn like clothes on a scarecrow

At war with war itself
Guided tours await the trans angel express

Which we celebrate, the only hope
In a box-filling audit of social suitabilities.

We took down verbatim
And rose harping on, a sampler

For singers, a kiss in the synapses –
Accruing structures of governance.

We ran a taste test and were misrepresented
On the floor of the speaker, tongue-tied by the roused

And drilled by the random surges
Of phone bills, burgeoning profits.

Asking ourselves the necessary questions
About spikes in those reactor vessels as

Ripping sounds in dream states bring to mind
Eyes from some lost planet where we

Held each other in rites of ageless nurture
Substituting a pendulum’s tap for serotonin.

We banked it like cosmic currency and today
Ride the waves of tidal control, flex of the bridge:

I feel the messenger of ancestral glow
Takes me towards a barter cosmology

As with the old photographs we digitise,
Be the black love in the heart of dirt.

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