Succulent Skin

Gila Monitor

Is it a brown shirt marriage bed

when women are indoctrinated

to a cause commit against one gender?

Is it re-domesticated violence

because sanctuary might otherwise be swamped

in double-y misery;

muscling a shovel,

or hefting a pick axe,

all to hollow out a civilized retreat

where no such meat may tread?

Aching knees and stinging eyes

skull and pepper, you dimpled rook.

Acid kisses behind brain-tased lies;

a pin, skin-threaded is all it took, never

to be found when the professionals look.

Look at the intelligence curves

with almond eyes and long lashes

most there in the centre

where the pecking order rarely clashes

with new born life, inviting

husbandry that doesn't look like an animal

menagerie of potato field slavery

and river-run washboard songlines.

So, who's to complain

when the state institutionalizes

a Jesus-in-the-crosshairs-

airborne-weapons-platform,

to be used if

and when he crosses up the line

and is either seen,

or his monitor calls it in

for the only and final strike?

Is it terrorism

these warrantless teams

of psychologists, and medical technicians

installing the viruses, alpha emitters,

subcutaneous monitoring

and signal receiver equipment

fat around the middle class fringe

as it dies and is replaced by machine intelligence

and lifeless mobile body armour

patrolling the streets

and the air traffic

of moving packages

from a far-off land

that now spurns the glut

of recycled metal

in favour of asteroids

landing fresh resources

into its fabricating crucible?

When is there a serial male objectification tag

that says #metoo which, in ending the paperless