builded made


He has paper skin. The wetted pores desiccate and crack. He is soon to be likened to the clay statues. The bruised and aged shoulders turn against the skin: it is the unheralded legacy of kings. The under-voiced see: it is undone.


The scream is in ice. The coasts embitter and soil the heritages. The heir to the towered island is no longer poised—it has dissolved into the sewered basements of the malls and derailed its ego. It has been suicided and kilned. It has twisted itself into the ethereal. It will not persecute the un-awake again.

A legion (a generaled squalor) wades to the waited coast island and assails. The residential palaces, housed by presidential off-spring, are sordid dens: soldier homes. The legion makes the soldier frames into hobbled and flaccid bowls. The legion burns the dead men and women. The apprenticed youth collect the cut lumps from the floor.

“We have war on the outside.” He says and does not look at the dead men and women. He vomits and returns to the tents. He maddens himself in the up and down rhythms of his hound’s sleep.


In late summer, he is vomited on the housed steeps of his own plantation. His skin has sought to dissolve, and wrench into the walls of the oak. He is bended into the shadowed corner and eaten: there are no longer children in this home. He becomes statued and limp.

The whored basement molds. It is reeked and outed in long managed petting. On the back and forth scattered light of the balconies, the massacred men and women smile and point at the beak of a thinned commander. The indenture now wholed.


The autumns colors of red and yellow and orange begin to cover the shaded greens. The colors will go. Soon, the opened and the enlightened vacuum of space will undress. Once again, he will see the eyes of his enemies. Once again, he will wheel.

“I see them plot.” He whispers. And quickly, his skin is wetted and the cracks begin to mold—back into the heart of his frame. His feet re-seek in softed beat. His hands are in themselves: cloaked in twilight gray. He is re-made.

The urined legion is casted to the un-make .


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