Grief burrow

Lord. For his android state, my self-elected satrap invokes your blessing. On the dark side of the market, broken bones of defiance, bloodstained walls in interrogation rooms, empty armchairs that talk during trial-shows, assassin guns sniping from rooftops, ruffian microphones eavesdropping and microbe-like cameras observing through holes in partitions.

My blood, dead for ten million years, is a thick black liquid.  For the monarchies or oligarchies of obscenely large mutant mosquitoes, sucking it from my veins is a privilege worth protecting. They will attack ferociously. The city, is reduced to less than a tin of broken biscuits, as if shaken in the hands of an amused infant. I run but can find no place to hide from the crusaders who flew over the sand waves to make use of their high-tech weapons by turning my head to a receptacle of their masturbated fire. Wearing a hawk posture, their mouthpiece declared ‘we must finish the job’. But guarding the gates of hell, Cerberus is still here, barking.

He bites off my lover's face and arm and bricks the door of my prison cell. I become the blackness of the ground beneath the floor that hides the hacked remains of my  love-object, multiplied to so many faces and lost smiles, so many pairs of hands and lost handshakes; and of the air above, I become the bleakness, pregnant with muted curses –  uncontainable in my sarcophagus,   

Transcending barriers to bare it and grieve…