Quarantine Poem #98 – “the executioner builds his weapon for 1 year on sacred days alone, and covets his hounds”

A choice chew, the urine-soaked woodchip
of Master                  FILTH hides
         in the long hair     like Kings! Kingdoms!
   of harvested goats…and subsequently…goat-skin
              tunics… Comets, blue fires burning
     upside-down, when the greenheads learn
 to bite the face, after terraced and Annihilated
                                            generations. Ft. Bragg
          slouch against the sea, begs, for itself, for new
  angel tourists, less diseased, it was wrong
                to despise them, white-jawed, “in principus,
      eat eat eat, vorus” he said, his bush-slept pitbull
  on a string, its tiger stripes, dragging its bones
           through town, through painted line geometry
  here, treatment
      of the Thing, the Project of all Philosophy
as a buried pipe, in loose duff, in trench
  of severed worms, that we ourselves trenched vis.
     CREATED all ziggurats of sovereignty, force +
          fecundity: this is the way: he punished the rapist boys he
               turned them (mabinogi)
into pigs wolves deer so that they would mate
 with each other and produce children, changed back
    now human, these children, further sons, adopted + named
      by lord Magician,                         MATH
                               in charge
               of meaning, by plains gossip, month
          to month, those poor people, what   ENCHANTMENT?
 EDD, BoA: come soon. They can’t have
      what they have, down there, only in pumped
 image, like a dead +
        giddy planet in stooped grass, no triumph survives
   the flag-colored dogs


Hunter Gagnon is a writer of poetry and experimental fiction. His work has appeared in Joyland7×7.LACabildo Quarterly and elsewhere. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of Slouching Beast Journal.  He lives in Kennebunk, Maine with his partner and two dogs. 

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