High in the clouds
the hard earth beneath finds a way to steal my smile —
a perfect dry run for the crash —
I fall long before I start to fall.
I fall before I start to fall
hastening the blood and tears
skipping the judgment
as the sentence is sure —
tears won’t cry themselves.
Tears won’t cry themselves
you won’t break until you help them snap your soul
until you whet tongues thirsty for applause
or silence.
Tongues thirsty for applause or silence
lap life from your puddle
retreat (in)to shallow mouths
come up dry for more
until you can give no more.
Until you can give no more
bleed
lie down and die
slow
or take some along in grand style
with assurances of sexy hashtags:
say it was for god or Syria.
Say it was for god or Syria
and let the ants all lose their way to sense
let them go round in (news) circles
until they die by repetition.
Until they die by repetition
moving in circles around truth
too exhausted to change route
marinate in your blood
you’re tastier that way.
You’re tastier that way
without the complications of nuance
created by condiments
They shouldn’t argue over flavours
blood is sufficient.
Blood is sufficient
and familiar
everyone can describe its metallic taste —
that is why you must be still
and marinate in blood.
Be still and marinate in blood-
yours and maybe that of others
But don’t complicate it
Say before it spills:
For god or for Syria