The Death of Ira/geMent, image by Daniel Y. Harris
The Death of Ira/geMent
The Death of Ira/geMent holds the Keys of Enoch,
The Death of Ira/geMent holds the Keys of Enoch,
rendered
mute in consensus,
manifested
in this age of political correctness. The chosen
mock
the polysyllabic
disdain
of the named syncatamore.
Mafiosos
camp on the fired hill. Censor raw
abstraction.
Hold the faculty of the burdened mock-eye responsible.
The
fan/tasy busts under. Derange, balk and muck
the
fuster of academe, hedged in dead edits.
Only
mammals bugger integumentary systems.
Our
art is for amphibians, reptiles and birds. Sequester the anthropoid.
Uhams falter
in the obvious. We lived passed
the
human. Only skin will interface. Only skin skins
a
tie up. Here’s a rip left out
of
the nearest mammal. X-Peri for the cocked few
of
many, kill standing first line
in.
The body is a pathogen, insulated and prostrate
to
temperature. A sere of scar
tissue—
0.5 mm thick in crow’s feet and wrinkles.
Living
on is a bitch. Estrogen
receives
the hormone. Fops unclear the clarity.
Place
demurs and prostrates. We don’t care. Never did. Coterie,
call
the gift. 1870 Paris, or 2015 Cambridge. No we
don’t
matter. We heard salvation in an army of dysfunctional imps.
We,
wretched in the re/mote of tough β-keratins, bust up
the
quo and laugh. Scandals will reign
past
Lowell’s planet-pity, brackish off metempsychosis.
It’s
about cum Dra/gnet.
We
can’t see. See only see the vampiric eye.
Please rouse
the mare’s-nest. What?
Crap
me the used corpse. Crap me the bloodless
bitch
of red. Honor. Repeat. Win.
They
but chronic Normans, demurred cancer of clichés.
Their
continuity won’t kill
the
impasse. Merocrine. Blood flow.
We
are the center of limpids. If you abjure the
syncretic,
the mock empty sole
to
organs—when the rage of misdirection lives on.
—Daniel
Y. Harris
