Fluids spatter the frame swinging in the wind
shield, triumphant in your dusty black garb –
scan your irises, analyse the veins in your hand,
check the newsfeed, we’ll track you down
the chanting of the desert column is silent, dust settles
over their slaughtered ranks, post it, dub it
get inside some poor bugger’s head, work their mind
smooth operator with rough hands, know no mercy
this is real-time execution, networked –
align them, chin up, but first select your knives,
wait for continuity, and the cameras to roll,
each raucous cry an echo of love, a twisted mind,
choke pockets of resistance, behead, crucify
Patrick Williamson