black matte spray collimate

at the museum of digest feminism
Boccaccio quotes have been stricken thru
the time to digress was then—
sometime in the 14th century wrought
in yersinia pestis yellow and arte della lana blue—
centuries before its gabardine inception
such foul humors seep thru the crack
in Boccaccio’s wall
the identifying placard in the shape
of a carmine-limned lanced buboe
“Meanwhile, we’re drinking our four-dollar lattes and improving our bodies. The capitalist world has sold us all on…”
so much depends on a red
transliteration
glazed with testosterone rage beside
the white klan hood
“Sod it, let’s see what comes out!
¡mierda! postmodern deconstructed construction”

What I’m Reading:

The whole story of it is that I didn’t know the hole was there. I fell in, blinking. The stars made their usual percussion. I discovered Franz in the hole, and to my delight, he was thirsty. He wanted milk. A whole carton of it. Every orifice in my body wanted to give it to him, but I couldn’t. The milk had run away with its glass.

— Yagmur Akyurek / “Classic Tragedy”