‘Hands Blood Red’ by Andrew Bradford

Shot as they were, they seemed to collapse under the weight of some extraordinary gravitational pull

Suppose he could be off in a fit of rage; he’s been known to fly off the handle

In the raw footage, it could be clearly seen that the men raised machetes and brought them down upon…

Perhaps this is some sick fantasy of yours, some wish fufillment you seem destined to make real

There is no religion more intractable than the Temple of Hate

Listening as they half-vocalize, half-whimper, until all is coldly silent

If there was only more time, more understanding, more of what the elders once called love

But now there is only the boot of insult, the tearing down of all that is truly divine

I have seen writing in dark dreams, omens of what is about to arrive

This time of year, this place among the infernal dross of disilusionment and deracination

The solutions will always seem far too pat, the questions far too complex

And so forth and so forth and so

Until all is conquered with rage, with agony, with the last vestiges of what once was

I call for the check–

I wish only to be carried home

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

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