Poem  –  Chicago 

‘My age, my beast!’ – Osip Mandelstam 
On the lips a taste of tolling we are blind

The light drifts like dust over faces

We wear masks on our genitals

You’ve heard of lighting cigarettes with banknotes we used to light ours with Jews

History is made of bricks you can’t go through it

And bricks are made of bones and blood and

Bones and blood are made of little tiny circles that nothing can go through 

Except a piano with rabies

Blood gushes into, not from, our wounds

Vietnamese Cuban African bloods

Constellations of sperm upon our bodies

Drunk as dogs before our sons

The bearded foetus lines up at the evolution-trough

Swarmy bloods in the rabid piano

The air over Chicago is death’s monogram

This is the Were-Age rushing past

Speed: 10,000 men per minute

This is the species bred of death

The manshriek of flesh

The lifeless sparks of flesh
Covering the deep drums of vision

O new era race-wars jugular-lightning

Dark glance bursting from the over-ripe future

Know we are not the smilelines of dreams

Nor the pores of the Invisible

Piano with rabies we are victorious over

The drum and the wind-chime

We bite back a voice that might have emerged

To tame these dead bodies aid wet ashes 

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