All gods must die, you know, as my Babylon of broken prose may yet prove. Culture shock renewed like running mascara, down her cheeks
with the rain, radical as the day the streets of her home were flooded and never drained again.
Extreme as the catalysts that took their crayons to creationists, redrawn as men who had ears of salvation, semi-automatic Zen.
Now’s there’s holes in her harbourage, carnage where children wrote in chalk.
She walks streets of a new land, with more hawks than vultures, dutiful worshippers of an opposite belief
declaring her harem, ever-apparent threat, collapsing cities every time she speaks.
All she wants is the neighbourhood in her dreams to stop burning, its little houses have walls once more, maybe a door like when she was young to
something more, all torn down for
a purpose no god would allow be ruined, surely?
Curiously, it’s not something to be mourned.