The Kite String Pops
The God machine is hungry
for individualism and ripe brains
the skull farmers do their rain dance
and pray the machine falls to sleep
she holds me close
and whispers wet
"there are cannibals among us."
mad in love with dry dead boys
in the backs of abandoned cars
smoking the bones of children
plotting the murder of love
God has turned his back on us
his daughter that sleeps with
black boys
the spotlight glares
like the eyes of forever
their scopes feel the
heat of my skin
this cold thing that thirsts
for the sun
this corpse that convulses
to breath
the kite string pops...
and I'm swallowed whole
by the sky.
D.R.
