POEM TO ÆTHELFLÆD (870 - 917)

Æthelflæd, your breasts are mountains!
the spirit of resistance in you,
    how it may never rest, or withdraw, or cease to hope the good hope!
 hurry, you matrix of resilience, the patroness of the already dead!
     take up your sword, that which kills the norsemen...
hungry storms yawn on the horizon;
the ocean has teeth of steel and vengeance...
Æthelflæd: kiss our swords, for we are weary;
the waves are short and vomitous this dusk,
how they wage a war on the mudrock and the moonstone of our shores;
you, saint, foresee the dark night:
shall the dragons of the north arrive from the heathenlands,
or may we sleep a single hour?
tell us to prepare and we shall die for you.

O Warrioress Queen Æthelflæd,
you are all that you never wanted to be,
yet you are all that you ever could be...
come, you: feel beneath your skin the uprush of wilder, jubilant energies;
shoot the religious phenethylline into your veins;
burst out with war, lead the way, tonight they come:
 we can see it in your eyes! tonight, war. And love. For you. 

the most depressive shit i have ever read /// a new zolpie

two disgusting eggs hatch with the cracking sound

of a beggars' lips separating

after a sleep of heroin

out of the eggs crawl his past

from one of the eggs his daughter emerges

but as a filthy insect with long wings and antennas

and she says: fuck you daddy

fuck you for destroying both me and my life

and from the other egg his old wife hatches

and she looks like a scarab or some king of dung bettle

and she tells him how much she wants him dead

for all the suffering he has inflicted on them

the beggar reaches for the heroin

and he is crying like a fucking girl

i did my best i did my best

and his broken heart sings on the very final note

and the endless cycle starts again

shattered hearts and the mist of drugs

took this beggar home to God