Mitch Green

Eaten By God

In lights we are visible to the darker
sectors of a silhouetted branch of
man. Whirling rifts of smoke,
bail in bold grey like clouded chalk.
Pale masculinity mulled over in sequence
of the suspicious novelty blown up before
his beak and crooked cock; the white
denim love affair.

Unmarked boulevards gored bare a
valley of victims. The channeling
chasm led us here ahead of our
triangular transgressions barking badly.
Escorting the figure of smoke to waft
out, like spider on wire.

Spear the clout of wind to stalk the tender
variables of whining women spilling out
of open windows, manholes, and the mouth
of Osiris.

He who cannot be beat,
must be eaten by God. 

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