"You ain't worth the blood that runs in your veins" - Bob Dylan.
The heavy elements melt into air
by abrupt sublimation. Call this the slow-burning
nuclear option, pre-emptive retaliation:
vapour against vapour, noisome gusts
of marsh gas met with purifying fragrance
of canned aerosol. Temper the brittle,
brutal, protocols of enforcement
with spectacular diversions, briefings
against the long agonies of war by any
and every other name. There is no way
possible to be innocent of this. Metastases
of fascist jouissance settle in every bowel.
Dull tumours swell inanely over cities.
It is literally the case that this maternity ward
is given to the manufacture
of biological agents: weapons of mass
destruction, potentially; palpating
cultures of fatal tissue, fit targets
for surgical ordnance. By such
discriminate means, see noxious Arab-
Semitic flesh and blood scraped
from the earth's crust: unborn and unnamed
or raised on the black milk of quotidian
politic deprivation - destined in any case
to sanctioned obliteration, invisible
even before their final disappearance.