Anathema can stalk
anyone, anywhere
like rhetoric, or marketing

it will find them

and use them

like a paycheck


For three days and nights
it’s been raining humans:

humans falling from heaven,
humans drowning in their own
human-made puddles,
humans choking
on unshared wishbones.

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

Anathema catches these humans
by the tongue, one by one,
as they fall like tears from heaven.

Anathema spits these humans into a bag
– a messenger bag made of Chinese linen,
so, the humans can breathe in this hot fall weather –
throws the bag upon a broad shoulder
and walks across the bridge to Anathema’s tower
where Anathema takes each of them out,
one by one, holds each
in the palm of Anathema’s hand
and studies their movable limbs;
very doll like, very simple.

Anathema lingers in the moment because
Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.)
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.) but
daddy’s gone now,

Anathema can play with them all.

Anathema gets a magnifying glass
out of a detective kit purchased from Boys R Us
and thinks about taking the dolls to the rooftop,
you know, the old victim under the magnifying glass trick?
That was always fun to do on hot days like this

But then something happens
when Anathema hovers the glass over them,
and notices their great big eyes of fear:

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

and notices the bloodshot complexity
of their eyes
and how the vascular pathways
spread throughout the whites
like a network of routes
on a human map
and Anathema begins to believe

that Anathema has found the map
to his hidden treasure


The Persistence of Clocks

The clocks are in serious discourse
no outbursts, just talk. They might be discussing politics
or the merits of a fine cigar
a persistent laughter chimes from their lobby

plugging an ear to a wall,
I listen,
plunging through ochre stains and spirit stench,
I hear
They are men, not machines, preserved in waxed hair
and antiquity
Sepia toned strangers with a distinct magisterial smell
Heroes of a revolution of steroids and steel

Do they weep?
Do they ever weep?
No, they will not weep, they are men,
yes! counters of sheep
As pallbearers of society,
they simply cannot weep.
or the empire would crumble,
the taxes would rise
And the peasants would take over
their keep

A fashionable stoicism props up their fingers.
nothing has drooped, not even a whisker
purpose clings to their corners, tailored as black,
so perfectly fitted- restraining to slack
Red ties throttle any new-collared schemes
until they are muted and clinging to steam.

It is this frank-less style that preserves an imminent birth-right
the black hat and chain that steadies their way
They have become so little, yet they are bigger than spaceflight
Casting a long shadow over the future of days

But sanely so, they are just clocks,
pendulums and pulleys
that go tickety-tock
Even in death, they continue to ring
Oh, the perpetual motion of such tedious things