Friday, March 3, 2017

The Fox’s Feast: Post-famine

The Fox’s Feast: Post-famine

Devoured by ballrooms of the arrogant machine
Clocks count the fox in time to a rhythm 
Systemic suicide that sets the alarm for a common thief 
to make her grand entrance,
resistance is key.

The minutes watch the seconds as they creep
upon the hours of gravity, owned 
towers that chime through grit and bone
We unfortunately are not alone.

The coat, a pocket for our bodies, 
the gates that take our young
the stolen mechanics, wandering concepts
impatient hands folded for unrelenting death.

I will march for my brood, sly, through the jaws 
of a union so broken and fragile.
Dirty and abused. I flinch, still I fight
I am lost and found and gone again
Fastened tightly to a wrist, my fist twists through 
the angry detours of the rabbit’s hole.

You are my enemy as I am yours.
Hatred burns with poetic inversions of inflexible proportions

I will devour you and all that you are.


"If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared." -- Niccolo Machiavelli