Between the bullet and the front sight, casting lots
Not every cold witness follows your discussion, pities you. Look, up there, pensively! Towards the outstretched necks, their throats, how they swallow. Am I the speaker? Does my heart—and the preacher—censor me? Assemble, radiate in the eyes of the massive inhibitor, then bask. Pour ink in them, make them shine at the point where minarets and institutions cross. With the ability of regret comes guilt after mercy in rotation. Two faces gore one another until they repel. So back off! My ribs gore one another until they spit the name of god. So behave! Oil them, put them back in order. At the point where ears and tear ducts wrestle as they cross, oath taking, whithersoever forgiveness, comes guilt after mercy in rotation. I see a forest, inhabited by flying angels, silent, and a pop-eyed fallen angel reports the others— —ripped off the wall in the name of the outstretched necks and their throats, ripped to praise the devil. The flames skulk through his sunglasses in each speech. He ordered them to arrest one of the two. How do pretenders sleep, Mr. Great? I see the soot stains on your towels, hanging in the background.
Meanwhile, in the factory, they treat us like passing meat on a conveyor belt. In the corner, an auburn-haired angel, shy, characterized by his protruding cheekbones. They have imprisoned him in the barrel of a gun, between the bullet and the front sight, casting lots. Blood stained the bed. A fear of excuses stained her face. Her tensed heel hobbles towards livelihood, shakes and shivers. Where could she quit? Where could she run, away from taxes and stereotyped mask straps? Perhaps a federation for reproduction existed long before her. At the point where ambitions and pointing fingers deceive each other, the golden fleece will be awarded to the one who slaps the other better— —in first place.
Translated by Abdullah Miniawy Released on 20sec magazines, rewire festival online edition Edited by Jovana Ivanac / Daniel Melfi