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Ray Dunkle
men of Nothing

Leather-bound desert lands,
spare your pity and irony,
your skilful pundit lodes,
your vertebra steam-engine
that crawls en pantoufles,
your nonce pizzle-placebo,
take the cyanide,
tablet of memory,
for your head rats.Now.

My mouth was never a womb
or my tongue a foetus,
blood shining
and cracking
the umbilical c(h)ord of carnage
of what we are
under the lucifugous
season of what we are not.

We are the maroons of the future past
we are collapsing words
consuming stuffed roosters
with ripped silence. Mute.

We are men of nothing,
nothing but dust in bodkinís eye
swept away by the worn hand of the sea,
nothing but breath crushing
upon the teeth
unable to whistle love,
nothing but ghosts upon a tapestry
of grease souls, stinking
under the burn of sun.



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