Colostomy Of Critics

We've gathered in circles
to pelt poetry
with bricks/grenades
and expect swans to
take up shelter
in the morning after
This is not a new thing
Hunger spins
in our DNA
for garbage writing/music/people
we
all
rot
The worst/best kind of life
throwing dynamite
at the dancing bones
Watch them splinter/break/crumble
Such amusement for us
transients/gods
watching burning zeroes shine
like the devine light
on our tattered jackets
and the perfection
mirrored on our
dying eyes/genitals