I can feel old death rising,
My pulse sears with an internal flare,
The spit cackle drying across the elderly facial tissue,
A green-throated hollowing,
Readied by a sun-made gesture,
To recognize the north and its slovenly border enclosing the
volatile station of enmity between the once revolutionary slaves and the
Queen’s vile whores
Witnessing the continuance of an apocalyptic crusade on
these modern shores
Breaking open the earth-less ocean unto the final turning of
Europe ’s last romantic page,
Closure to the novel convulsions of a people well-practiced
in ethnic cleansing and rife with general ethno-cultural frights,
A personification of madness in a room filled with the
posthumous ghouls plugging away at their savage spoils like follicles bending
to old age in a mindless instant,
Only to wonder about the eternal forms of a blessed
imagination,
To obscure shadows with neglect and endure the ritual
heights prescribed in local law on this night
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