meditation on a cheap reproduction of dali's the face of war

think of a white sun in
a white sky

think of all the filth
that casts shadows

of all the miles and miles of houses
that will fall despite our
futile efforts to keep
them standing

and words are what i use to
kill time with
when my mouth isn't pressed to
your naked flesh
and the deaths of others are
what i feed on

and tell me this isn't
true of anyone

show me a picture of christ at
the age of fifty

dig up
whatever remains of pollock
and tell me that he's
not god

tell me who is

watch how easily
the villages begin to burn

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