Histories Whores

A hillside spitting like a punctured artery
beneath the bridges of commerce
where the forgotten forge lonely bonds
with the crude beauty of the elements.
Sprayed in defiant patterns,
dancing in a symphony
of despair
The assassin sleeps without anxiety
Each bone has a function
And all the dead men sing
…we’ll cut your throat if you say too much
…we’ll cut your tongue out
Drink the silence
we are histories whores…

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