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
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
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 Joyland, 7×7.LA, Cabildo 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.