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Kill Everything

You want a love poem for all the dictators
(“so they’ll stop from being the meat saved for later
all wrapped up in your voice;
and say ‘I’m always fine, I’m always OK or greater.’”)
What they lack in volume, they make up for in noise. 
They want a promise, a parachute, a life or something greater,
and you want a love poem for all those dictators. 

I’m The Furious Poet, but I’m just a scale on the Big Fish;
I’m the words whose sound you lost or just can’t admit.
I’m the coast, the cavern, the cure, and the curse.
…And my work is the punchline of the universe.

Plus, there are some sounds you just don’t have in your language,
like voicesteps left on bad bridges slightly singed,
and the niceities and the intimacies,
the turns to The Best; ….just an unlucky guess,
folly ripening, reason rotting,
just seasons fighting, all of it rotting.

		There’s not a lot here,
		Just more room to move it around.
                We didn’t lose anything, 
                We just have more to fill now.
                So count your name
                And spell your age,
                And try to figure out why
                You kill everything in your way.

You want a love poem for the dictators, for all the rest;
and I’m that frequent girl who can deliver, to beg, blind, and bless.
I’m a frequent girl for a fight/fuck love/kill stretch.
But I can’t translate the passing past the perfect edge;
I can’t convince them they’re any worse that The Mess.

What don’t you understand?
I can’t divide them,
I don’t impress them;
I can’t design it.
I don’t suppress it,
because what I lack in volume
I make up for in noise.

And the fight/fuck love/kill boy:
you’ve a face out of tune with my hands, I’ve seen.
I don’t mean what you think I stand for,
and I can’t stand what you think I mean.

		Well there’s not a lot left of you,
                Just more room for me to move around.
                We didn’t lose our minds or anything,
                There’s just more to fill now.
                So I count my name
                And I spell my age,
                And I try to figure out why
                I kill everything in my way

I don’t have the words or the hands or time to write now,
and I’m the kind who buys the house just to burn it down
till there’s nothing left but room to move us around.
Then the Folly is ripe,
Reason’s turned to wine.
So open your head
and lift up your eyes.
You know the weight 
by forced levity of voice,
a lovely fighting volume, 
a fucking killing noise.
Open my head,
lift up my eyes.
I know the weight 
by “Heaven has fluorescent lights.”

Does Your house burn?
Does your God pay all the bills
charged to Him for the universe?
where’s there’s never less, always more to fill.
Can He count His name,
can He spell His age,
or at least say 
why we kill everything in our way,
then say “It’s always fine, It’s all OK or better;”
then write love poems for all the dictators?

Fate