Massacre

Empty space breaks and rains sideways flames from the stage,
skeleton masks gasp from where once lumberjacks sat,
stabbed in the back, attacked by facts,
negotiating contracts.

Carbon date weightbearing straight staring reception,
a hundred, a hundred and one,
fingers to the button, fracturing balances,
clicks, clunks, thumps.

An avalanche of lapsed formal integration,
gormless structural remains,
edge inch by inch,
into fictions.

A wandering odour of sharp hearts charred dark,
in the fizz and dust,
of recent,
present sparks.

 

© Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor

 

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