by Ian Bush
Breathing is a necessary torture
in this atmosphere of razor blades,
each inhale stings, leaves him thirstier and a little bloody below the lips.
The dynamite cloud is about to cracks open
and pour down that acid rain smell he’s learned to love.
To him it sounds like a mushroom cloud blooming under an oil hiss,
maybe it is and the asphalt is a frying pan.
God made the Earth in seven days,
and it was good.
How many days did it take for man to make it bad?
he sleeps tonight on the concrete by the car horns with Christ in his heart, under a sky full of razor blades.
Yes, the meek will inherent the Earth,
they’ll each take turns sucking Its bones.