Light ripped off the lazy sun, now, drifting feathers in sulphur clouds sway and curl in the fertile thighs of gasping, gobbling crops.  By the way, crops create shit!

Jets of machines, who exhale, ripple the oxygen as fruit and grain transition to obedient crusts.    This is not a poem, it is the energy we eat.  I hate to write about science.

Still, killing a race simply because you can is great fun and surprisingly easy.   Even though you are  utterly disgusting, bright-lipped skinnies will give you a curdled orgasm.  Honestly, if the economy is bad enough, anyone will suck your dick. But, please, kill a town.  Kill at least one. Because you can kill a whole town for fun and no one will try to vet your calculations.  No one likes a tattle-tale killjoy.

But back to the heavy grains, staggering in the cooling layers of evening indigo. (poetry is for assholes)

He, a man.  A man, preserved by suns.   Suns lifting up filmy skirts.  Now he can see cunts, shaved or wild-bush.

(i have been obscuring this man)(but he won’t let me too close)(because he is a dickhead)

Waddling trucks are full of  the berries he grew all year from a bank loan and an army officer too wise to forget a sick sibling.  The trucks, full (as we have said), make biscuits slipped in to massive guns.  You see?  The blasted goons like food.  He makes this food.

(and yet now, he is pinned down by slate-colored shadows.  i have failed so further)

His machine strips the berries and the berries make a paste so much stronger than armor-swaddled machines.  In another year, the guns blasted his home apart.  Then he was too old to deflect the knives.  Then the knives flew down and quieted his dreams. Then the dreams flowed to gods.

God is so fucking lazy…

Still, the trucks carry berries and the trucks carry loaded shotguns and they carry magnetic recordings that they say excuses the whole awful thing.

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved