OF A SOW

They are arguing downstairs, about what, it’s hard to make out. A scribble across sound. Waves of pattern distorted by weather and the clouds which would switch their colors if it wasn’t as dark as it is outside. Refusals, what electrons portray, and it’s not hollow through there. Thick, dense. Throat tight where factories wait to burst. Their skins build puss within a spider’s egg cramping into the edges of a wall. A choice for molding clay. People from ribs of a sow crowd palm open silk-weaving wires above rooftops connected by wooden poles. Rowing down bathroom sink; trees populating the sides of the brain. Watching as plain as day dries the plain with its technological teeth. Cracked pavement. Statue missing arms. A battle without tanks. Holes in the consistency of operative discharge. Occupying. They are arguing downstairs.

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