the syzygy of
laundered souls
in the weeping red
bubble,
hammer, sickle, star
shaken, to the beat
of the drum,
as spirit level
ghosts
play out their
national sports
on the ecchoing
green,
shadowed by broken
birch trees with varnished stumps,
facing opiates
and icons,
gazing down into a
millennial love affair,
(their
war the state against babies),
while barbarous
eunuchs leap passionless over
operation barbarossa
barbarossa
barbarossa
barbarossa
how much red flesh
must we feed to Moloch?
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