“Many think it not only inevitable but entirely proper that liberty give way to security in times of national crisis…in the interpretation and application of a Constitution designed precisely to confront war and, in a manner that accords with democratic principles, to accommodate it.” — Antonin Scalia
Sing, Muse, the anger of my hammer, smashing lineaments of star-crossed chancre-spotted love!
Defacing faces: ball-peen tenderizing every kiss-me-cute television countenance (“somebody’s baby, once”) – chop chop – to goo of Human be.
Smite them (who? you know who) with the mother-of-bad-hair-days on Reality-TV! Allow them pulpy, resonant awareness (on camera, no less!) of disfigurement, disharmony, disgrace. Limp like laundry. Strewn in torsion, as if: spontaneous liposuction on the kitchen floor. Rorschach for the house-bound failure; the asthmatic; the agoraphobic; the tired, huddled, massive masses, yearning to breathe free.
“You lick the blood off that floor, now! Go on, lick it, lick it, do what I say, say what I say,” they say (you know, them).
Tastes like old hammer; tastes like blood. Cursed with morning sickness, mourning sad. Breakfast candy myth of chewy-chocolaty divine rage of “who” not “what” rolled loosely within flammable, hammer-able, firm, yet vulnerable, mortal, skin.
Somebody’s baby, once, somebody’s kin.