Run ‘round the rotunda brother.
Run ’round the rotunda mother.
I will bash both your heads in,
the both of you,
while you are running around the rotunda,
mother and brother
clouds do tell
the King Makers, the King Killers
lined up all around the rotunda.
Worshiping on both sides of morality,
worshiping, worshiping, worshiping.
Worshiping the whiteness of light
and the whiteness of stone,
the smell of mineral or concrete,
lemon scented candles,
white cotton sheets.
The Aztecs were tilted off sideways,
off into the sun.
I killed them in the Spring,
it’s like Summertime here.
My telegram to the county commissioner
standing right now by the church
“O, my brother and mother are dead.
I have killed them.
In Spring it’s like Summertime here,
ten o’clock yesterday morning,
they were the walking dead,
the bait fisters . . . the bait fisters!
I’m sorry but I cannot fix this
with their knees twisted backwards, broken in time,
that bloody time
they broke with their damn bait fisting, the bait fisters
still walking, still worshiping.
It goes on in programmatic genetics.”
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin