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Oreste Belletto

The Torture

 

The men ask questions, intending
nothing. A light refuses

into the assemblage of floors, ceilings,
clothes. It is all decided: who will answer,

who will appear naked.
Guard uniforms shrive a body’s shape.

Sags open in the flesh
and droop; hands sting and deepen

the cell with a drummed series of snaps cascading
through percussive breath.

The room with one light, a room
sounds leave: Hands no longer

hiding anything, feet timing a solidity
that reveals all by that light: Wall. Wall. Wall.

One window with which to receive,
one door from which all has turned to

here and continues turning
here to listen.
 

Troll Farming

I go online to argue with the snowflakes and the edgelords. My anger and their anger blend until we make Islamo-globalist hate babies. And I am spent.

Logic is nice but who ever lay back in the orgy-funk of a rational thought before its sweat grew tacky, and pulled on a cigarette?

Trace the connections of these little keys and our fingers, in this way intertwining all the n00bz and 1337 in their confused love flame and monitor glow.

I am amused. I am outraged. I am jumping conclusions.
I am in ur FaceBook h4x1ng ur friends list.

Christ, what is steady in us as we weave rage infatuation
and the dull throb of incoherence into our leisure time.

I express annoyance, but your logical fallacies excite me. We all have our fantasies.
“Terrorist-in-the-shell-game fear-mongering conspiritard” adequately sums up my position.

“Tolerantly-triggered social justice Sharia snowflake” sums up yours. Everyone’s an idiot. I am satisfied, the lurkers are satisfied.

Somewhere deep in the data shroud a rainbow farting unicorn changes their mind.

I try to imagine a world I don’t participate in, and participating, contribute my mistakes.
It seems peaceful.

But nobody’s developed a technology for peaceful entertainment.
If they have, I am not on board.

Nothing’s worse than thwarted justice. I’d rather line-edit in Windows.
It’s like an orgasm stopped by the fire alarm. Inside me, the explosion must connect.

And that’s why we have that shooter game where you can gun down the greenpeace
activists.

 

Power_Prayer.jpg

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray

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