Crossroads, by Stella Wulf

I am not a silent poet

You dare to dice with me, pitch your luck against mine?
Fuck the crossroads, you say, we’ll deal anywhere
with our stash of slur and slander, our stock of false news,
alternative facts, inflammatory views.

Fools, with your consuming religion of hubris and greed!
My advocates are legion, a cloven clatter, thronging corridors,
halls, city squares, to the blare of rallying horns.
It behoves you to fear me.
I don’t care for the foul rot of your newsprint mulch,
its smutty, acerbic smoke, I won’t scuff my hooves
scratching for crumbs of a creed that’s already mine,
to broker a deal for your worthless souls.

No matter that the fires of hell are choked with ash,
the vapour of pulp fiction, or that the damned
no longer burn in torment, but warm their bones
at dying pyres.
You stoke your own hell on the lands you’ve ravaged,

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