Hand a little wet

Or:

A complete set of scavenged hands

The thousand-strong revolver blew
through some flowers plucked by slaves
in bending labor over atomic fallout.
The flowers blew into gunfire
wild and marched their walk into cities
like Babylon handing themselves out.
The slaves rebelled and procreated
for generations a people nigh sterile
who never warred for their genital gout.
Their land was bright in the sun’s heat
where cool things die and hot things eat
but they were dark but shy of another route.
When they held the cotton farce
their hearts turned dark in dearth
of voices whipped afraid to shout.
Sweat can even bloom if human
from naked feet on bleeding soil
if indeed its silent lung can doubt
the sun, even the church of the sun,
the sun’s sweat, the dry circular run,
and the violence done in the fields of drought
where a muzzled clan was beaten devout
until their masters were priests throughout.

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~ by Jeremy on July 21, 2009.

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