manifesto
manifesto
three men, heads pressed
onto
white-cold pillows, touching
each other
to see who can write
the best poem about it.
everyone
is writing a novel. they are all
uninterested fingers teeth.
the first postcoital key to be pressed—a “W”
for WAR—will trigger a typewriter to cave in
on itself. like soft rubble chafe
CRUSH!
they would always have the need to write the W-ord.
everyone always knew that
the war was in the not-warring.
rather, in the mouth. the war just
beginning & blooming. In the mouth.
blushing & gushing in the mouth.
like hot silver smoke hose water
sulfur and the salt of sweat
three men, all of them, splayed open, unbuttoned shirts. hair. skin. hair from skin. wet.
you are in the frontline of it, fixated.
little explosions everywhere inside you.
(shrapnel spark
tiny deaths)
it could’ve been over easy
or easier.
