there’s a dreamer at the edge of the prairie,
an ancient angel of brutal sex, arranging his affairs
he’s bravely able, the bull in the maze, the wolf on the hill, slave of chaos
a perfect cranium crater not interested in rape
but lining up slaughter as means to an end
he wants babies
the right kind of babies
he will clear lands of all others
to make room for the right kind of babies
there is a cradle in his arms
and graves behind
he opens his mouth
words appear in the air around him
