a merciful fist, an abundance of despair

dead man doing the worm down on
the corner of grant and main,
giving it everything he's got, face torn
against the concrete, mouthful of blood,
eyes rolled in his head and this is
the past and this is the future and
this is always the here and now

this is the dream
after the dreamer has been crucified

the bastard children of
crippled saints

we leave them to laugh
at the desert's edge

leave them to sing and to play in
the ruins of the
abandoned cities, and later,
when they sleep,
we crush their skulls beneath our heels

we feed their bodies
to the wolves

there is no such thing as a life
that can be survived