words

the television holds nothing for me
but i let it stammer on.
the sun bleeds through the curtains
and the cat stretches
and scratches at the furniture.
somewhere, atoms race
toward one another in beautiful finality
and we go stumbling onward
toward the dismal sunset of a mad fucking chapter
in human recollect
like those devoid of circumstance,
like things lacking foresight,
chimeras hiding in wilted flowers.
bombs break open the sky
like a cloistered coffer
and the world is gripped in hysteria
border to border
in a cartographed nightmare
of blood and bone and camouflage,
tanks and planes and bayonets,
everywhere, everywhere,
god tells them to inoculate their brethren
and so they do but god is not wise
and so neither is the world.
weep, you mindless men of forgotten words,
for your way is dead and gone
and these are the spasms of its final breath.

-S.C. Martinez