Their apocalyptic Tour-de-Eiffel figure scathes the gunmetal
skyline; puncturing the fog like an anesthetist’s needle.
The steep clouds
rolling across the land could be the smoked abdomens
of genies—which seem a direct effect of their frayed copper
wires and beams.
There’s a defilement about the scene; a kind of vandalism.
Winds bend the signal. My alphabetized bones &
hieroglyphed organs transmit through general’s radios.
The earth is one long mother scream. We’re still in the womb
like Jonah. Black crows sink their metatarsals into an electrical
cradle: a convex of satellites. The system is safe.
I feel my ribs as a fiber glass chip of sand, & I walk the marshes:
a mnemonic glitch.
Chris Viner is a writer based in Los Angeles. He is the author of Lemniscate (nominated for a Pushcart Award). His work appears in Colorado Review, Critical Read, The Festival Review, The London Magazine, and Woven Tale Press, among others. He holds degrees from Goldsmiths, University of London and St Anne’s College, University of Oxford, where he was a recipient of the Pasby Prize for his writing. He is poetry editor at Twin Bill. Find out more here: chrisviner.com.
Artwork: sugarmints, home