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Writer's picturexwaxinglyricalx

Anthropocene



It is deeply beholden

to the unnatural vale

in which its slick murk

slowly congeals,


Drawn by time from

its disposable purpose

into a slow collapse

that laps the planet

like that inner skin

of an onion, the one somehow

browned within

the ball of white.


It's the mark

of the Anthropocene.


The rotting remains

of bones, stumps, and roots

that fell to be crushed

by pressure and time


Resurrected, no -

re-animated ... electrocuted

to twitch, lifeless within


life-taking without,

modern manufactured

to string the neck,

bag the face,

and clog the gut.


There was struggle

before the ghost gave up

and the bleached ball

fell silent again,


and in the midst

of a breathless, empty dream,

the old bones became

in an oily post-post-state


a slippery remnant,

a greasy smear in the sediment

wormed through

the remains

of a layer of masks.

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