Sunday 1 April 2018

a little cross over the hertzian city (draft/unfinished)

             neither poppies
        in headland, 
                or grille pasture
          at 20,000 Hz
       shocks the most 
      aerosol button into 
     the archive rib cage,
      there is a country somewhere
     because of rare flora 
             fostering the dead ones
   raise it to the height of
              ninety-five metres,
                  O' my sons 
mouths reversed  
       what ran our 
                  post-industrial heritage
      music is damage
on the body 
  so sky turned transducer 
        is not broken it 
        fixes the grass-
       put the music on!
             press quid pro quo
             such is a grafting
       of flesh,
              catching sweat rolled
the brow into a half-pipe 
holds the languid 
taurine up faced 
    pinned concave,
        borrowed the dish and 
everyone spat
        into the biggest hole
you have ever seen
      not even tasted 
           inside as even
         is in you
           wear headphones
              and compete with them?