Poem as bullet

A typographic rukus interrupts
their dense arrangement of wires;

language for its own sake was
alone on top of a cold building.

Steel performs a shedding of skin
in reverse. The snake creeps back

inside. In truth, the whole metropolis
is bleeding from the guts and gums.

To order space when we cannot even
tell the time – to me, that seems absurd.

University of Life, mate. (Up a garret
down a side road with no heating.)

Some scrag in a poncho screaming
How’s your father? to a rookery of

knaves who’ve missed the deadline,
press execute and drop. The signal

to advance arrives, but through a process
of erasure, ritualised in stocks, fails to

register; they slump. Soon it will be 2010.
Incendiary devices are improvised

from the rotting shells of dead poets.

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