that decrepit machine

By Charles Myrddin

it’s the fear not—it’s the remembering—it’s how they vomit blood—it said fear not and they vomit blood—it was not talking to them

the river maidens watch the frogs leap on the banks—they count the frogs—running from their baths—crying

nothing is sacred in the dark—only the soul, contained in the cells, sloughing off the skin—waiting to be consumed—waiting without fear for God

God’s chickens only eat manna—when surrounded by a thousand thousand locusts—only manna in the desert
what is a king—a small irritant—a horsefly biting—and they were sore afraid

recorded here are the names of the kings—and the kings’ sons, and their sons, and their sons—nothing is sacred—there was no blood—