*a poem by zain baweja

Mass crash - hurtling

forward - a thousand bodies

suspended in a mist of fine

glass. Shattered

 

 

Smartphones

materialize.

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

A thousand voices yawp.

 

 

Armed guards malnourished

point guns. Sticky flesh kiss

Japanese metal. I now pronounce

you flotsam.

 

 

Moon officiates moon

comprehending boys. Turning

purple by the sea by the city

meat grinders. Churning.

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