The blood which is art.

This is our blood, which bleeds from fingernails ripped,
as we claw at that vast heap of rubble,
from which facts are torn by torn by torn by force of will.
The freeze vat of cold reality,
all that is outside us, beyond us,
beyond our control and understanding.

All that is, beyond the verb's limits of being.
It defies the definition, what we say is
is because it is a reflection of this,
this ism.

These, these canals of blood,
through which flows the bodies of those,
stuffed into the soul machine, and
churned, churned in to slurry beyond flesh.

These ages spent in an hour of prison,
one linked to other and through all these minutes to the last,
until one breath above the surface of the channel's tranquility,
is granted as the reward of futile struggle.

A bird flies
a moment cries,
it was the flooding tide.
Of the blood.
Of a hundred flowers blooming.