Art

Meeples in Solvent – Trix Arctor

Send help to those who made it this far
There’s no turnarounds or snooze buttons
Everyone’s clouding up
And it’s just unbearable to witness.

Crisp clarity in certain avant-voices
But it’s near inaudible when squared up
And squeezed between the boundary lines
Of cranked signal.

Only so much can be captured!

We’re floating frictionless all in unique directions that offend cardinal
And the interlocking of eyes or lips
Whether stuttering open/closed
Or stagnant and awaiting response
Escapes at a surprise dorsal exit wound’s pace
Clasping falsehoods and mishaps briskly
To evoke a mutual nostalgia.

Touch-starved memories of a mass hysteria
Where sparks could fly
Unsurveilled by vigilante firefighters.

Some immaturely try to steer
Others boast they have never drifted off course
Others understand that movement is not the process
But the destination
And happily go comatose.

They usually prefer to degrease with poison.

The cursed children dodge the falling blocks flattening their villas
Others arrive riding atop the pieces
Wishing to be cursed
Casting reflected silhouettes of Dionysian scenes
Across the town square.

Wise blood seeps from the gaps in the exposed cobblestone
Where the shadows don’t fall.

The world as a tumbling infant,
Stubby limbs tucked desperately in
Entirely on instinct
Prodded by the rusty nails that crown every un-uncomfortable stoop or bench
Being pierced in its soft spots
Cut across the palm
And sliced open through the sole
Crying out for parents whose nonexistence implies
Overly liberally applied anesthetics of the heart,
Knowing without knowing
That help won’t come.

Not only is the panic button broken
But the glass guarding it from carnivores has splintered
And lodged fragments of itself
In every major artery
Of every pregnant human.

This is the horizon rushing up to meet us
Before we have even finished putting foundation on.

Half-battered
And instantly pulverized.