By | 1 May 2020

My young domestic lifeline came to sit
exhausted, by the ashes of its lot
for what these boys so bravely now commit
when life itself is grounded in their rot?
If I would be the guillotine, its rungs
the head of Richard Spencer cold, shoved in
the microwave as testament to none,
his resolute interior, the pin:
To stretch the dried up soul into its frame
wafting paradichlorobenzene
his molded face and maggot mouth regained
let out in one last slip to feel obscene.
All gains in this lush meadow held my head:
Will summer’s fragrance block their throats instead?

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