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Private Eye

Poetry & Prose | March 23, 2015

Wire networks of word-of-mouth whispers
pass through litmus test labyrinths,
steam rising in cylinders from the pipes.

I’m cross-legged,
shuffling through manila files of aliases,
greyscale negatives, whose backlit
blank-eyed stares lacerate the sky.

Smoke screens diffuse
as arsenic heuristics wilt in
glass vials.

Is it just me or do you hear castanets clamoring?
CAUTION!

Red-hot coils
then the placid burning plastic
of drained gene pools.

Startled screams muffled under the surface
temperatures on the rise.
You really should read the weather reports.