What space in the clouds for the accidental martyr?
A head space only — the shit storms that define him
struck through light & life — thin pink mist & dense white vapor
& lead thrown through cloth & meat
& baked in soft asphalt heat.
Nothing happens,
but away above an overpass fly birds & planes.
Aweigh below the bay swim crabs & nets
disarticulated from a mesh.
Then suburbs shout from living throne rooms:
Who tracked this blood in?
Can you steam clean a nation’s soul?
Or do you rip it out?
How much would that cost?
As A Baraka once said: “It is better to have loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms.”
& as another Baraka’s yellow-masked colleague said:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~GET OVER HERE.
(Savage demon warriors harpoon enemies & rip out their hearts.)
& as one of our youngest militants softly intoned
/ between deep breaths / for the radio mic:
I see no shame in //
// being violent //
// to be heard.
her honest calm more exhilarating than a hundred masked howls in the night.
Ajith Nedumangad,
Land… Body….
drawings on cigarette packages and paper
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