Meat Market, Part 7

There is something
inside us, decrepit
hanging loosely the
tongue of some dead words.
We the shame of children
left finding silently
directions and lesser
thoughts of marrow,
it pries into the bones
of hardened brains.
Rivers where birds
left straggling their trees
unfruited to sweeter lies.
The stench of governments.
The nauseous governed.

What flesh they mince
within this skin of transparence,
they cloud the eyes
and murder parades the street.
Shit of pigeons.
Clowns or gods--did we create?--
the dead voted for life
with vetoed blood
and winter drowning.
These, clowns or forms
for gods to unfulfill, deny
truth at all costs.
Paid for with blood.
Lazy diseases.
Your naked is.
Flame of unheat.
Bare down clenched
and toil your bone.

Lies all. Belief.
Picnic basket full,
panicked cacophony
of holidays insidious like seasonal
hell, economic index discards
you. Your meat on the shelf.
You.
Rattlesnakes in the throat
dead skin cannot shed.
And how you dance!

{the band plays a cold waltz
frozen to history's long rapsheet}

Clowns, gods, no circus
to cage the elephant
and the colossal shit
that stinks like democracy.