Heath Brougher

H Eat H 
 
Soundlessly creep the flock of owls
assimilated meat annihilated heart   
turned cold faucets to the lukewarm and back
half minutes of long city days
waking early to the noisy windows
the blaring sky feeding a needlessness
under its own unused, unseen light
broken plates she screams the cleaver
toward the gut of a hungry pigeon
she exclaims she is Binge, the fastest one
like nobody else was moving faster
to sprinkle the strawberry dust over the feathered carcass
impaled by her dozen forks
even the buildings are voracious, the nice people voracious
going their ways all together not stepping aside each other,
the stride of a pretentious saunter, fabled unseen
yet plastering the white on the white and the black on the black,
their forced societal cliques still nothing like newborn
destiny they call it prefabricated meetings
of the similar she doesn’t look toward me
they say it’s meaningful, a special place,
but I’m staring right at the shuddering core
hidden under the rinds and bloated sights and sayings
of their swarming and festering un-remedied social poison.


 

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