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indigo snake in the orgone boxTo Luke Buckham's previous piece     a phantasmagoria featuring spastic and languid figures in opposition;To Luke Buckham's next piece

a so-called Luddite's metaphysical chisel sends sparks

make the earth flat again
turn the parking lots upside-down
watch the splintered glass rain into the abyss

when the bomb hits the bank I'll be laughing
among the green tears on the sidewalk
laughing in the whirlwind of shredded currency
shoppers running past me with their hair on fire
receipts like confetti being swept away
human candles going together back to zero
emptying the gas pumps for the last time
complaining about the prices for the last time
lecturing their children on the importance of building
       impenetrable magnetic credit card fortresses
                       for the last time.
darling, when you cut your throat with a sunlight-reflecting scalpel
I thought the gape was a wide fruit-stained smile
when you came closer I had to fill my eyes
with the ashes of great men's bodies
to soak up the tears & wear blindness as a comfort blanket
lying on the sidewalk atop broken wings
that someone's exhausted guardian angel left behind
in the bank collapse aftermath

I was in the boxing rink with seven singing androids
when the nuclear breeze came through the coliseum
tearing through the spectators like sawblades of light
leaving them eviscerated but still unimpressed
shadowy bouquets of billfolds
jutting from the exposed seams of their guts
and as blinking digital watches rained from the sky
covering the floor of the rink
as the androids tried to catch them in their mouths
hell had risen into a raincloud
and I knew why I was unscathed
under the bittersweet breath of the mushroom cloud
it was the rose that you my love left pressed
between my twitching thighs

believe now in the kiss amidst the rubble
        in the grope
beneath the broken skyscrapers

in the unprotected lovemaking atop a landfill
surrounded by fallen helicopters rusting in the sun
now looking like dead pterodactyls
or the dark angels of progress smitten with oilslick eyes.

our climax rattles through Junkyard Earth
and is the sound
of a yet-to-be-born baby

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