I don’t want to get all mystical about growth but torch the crop to bring rise to fertile land
the black gardener monsanto murdered audibly is leaking and squealing just beneath the burn his body becoming fertile land I don’t mean to blame fertility for killing but torch the crop and a fire spills its nerve erotic destroyer and what I cannot destroy shiva will destroy for me and listening I see his gust of needles land on g and grab a moan I keep saying to speak is to touch he says please touch yourself for me he settles beneath the torch a middle c orchestra trying for bea and to be about it row of orange orphan clouds spilling into new sky like the mild crackles in black hallways and the one come from the killers to swallow torches is talkative as a reach of sunflower pollen in the isle pollen in the limbic shyness of voices that can feel themselves copulating in the field helplessly like echoes and cold moondust falling flinging itself at the mercy of the season of broken crops that kiss to hunt the rain that suck on garnet to keep thirst away that chase the firefly into the beetle’s name so you’ll never know shit from magic unless you burn one down oh cowards how I treat your effigies like flags of unborn nations and your flowers the first fascists again fascism has a pact with spring investigate nothing and no one but the land and the mouths will show as crows with flutes for wings where gardens are for warnings that never end
