the golden armor of science

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I. Skeleton

Well, the Curse fell down like a Sword
the feet fell down with a thunder-Sound
It was a technique, a Style
a Crying Out against what happened there
an insistence of living against.

                                                all contact is numerical
            manipulation     —   
                                    insistently, we resort to recursion
            do you concur?

blurry universe
green o green o green o green o
                                    -dor of cuts dol
                                                    -or all around all screaming all surround no

                                                                        — silence — all — sound —

               take then, the god as emergent phenomena.
                       what                                                                        ardor
                       emerges from what?
               take then, my skin:   glowing and raw.
                        yearning and
                                                stretched.

               what emerges from the circumstance of emerging?
               wailing on whaling on
                                                   reason upon
                                                   reason rising out of
                                                   reasoning
                                                   sea.

II. Organ

cuts through                 my eye                                                                                                                                                                              severed from it
by        imagination     film,
becoming        ,                       only camera
similarly       eye.                                fizz fountains up                the trees so bare so
autumn                                    bare
            surely there is wood here,       surely.
our world aflame. and yours? the sh
                                                ra
                                                            pn
                                                      el

of the explosion is designed to create a perfect armageddon of blades, whirling.
your mouth is
red and violent
a gash              in
            maple sweet
eye
repeating in
            three parts
                        again, you say, again

III. Mind

perhaps the dog experiences a sort of teleportation, awakening into a quiet room from a dream of chase and rabbit and field and felt and blood and food-pound nose-prick wound-ache sound-flake

alternately: last night torching a field of wheat. a war crime, but it was fun, and i remember thinking of starvation while the gold burned.

again we hallucinate. above the killing field, a group of crows is a murder a group of heuristics is a justice.

poetry is a disease for which the poem is the cure or something or other.

through machine learning the strip is divided into blast radii in order to streamline the butchery of human bodies, with optimization modules focusing on poets, journalists, and, of course, children, in ascending order of primacy.

morale is always too fucking low. i am either talking about capitalism, war, or FIFA Ultimate Team. e microtransactions unum.

IV. Soul

given god’s infinite grace and wisdom,

all drone strikes were glorious, felicitous, good

we must imagine ; impaled by shards of time.

that the world loved exploding

we are haunted by a haunting

some recursion of a curse

this sentence is the blister and the burst.

Dylan Haston is a “vocateur” reader, writer, and reviewer of SFF fiction and poetry from North Carolina, currently residing in New York City. A recent graduate, they have worked as a bookseller, a literary agency intern, and an observer of lemur behavior. You can find them at nearby poetry readings or immersed in the world of their most recent favorite book.

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