‘Sweat’ & ‘Revolver’ by Walker Storz

sc june 18


How many times
can you
rise up to be
beaten down
by a blunt wall–
Red, humid,
broad as a thoroughfare


Before failing

A lucid star drops
from the east, a
soundless bomb
Shattering like a
Vermillion mirror–the
soul reflected into
Itself, infinitude–each
piece a drop of
sweat. The star
crosses the equator–
tumbles toward
Hell, the
guts of Earth. A
place teeming with
sickening, writhing
life; life which is too
vigorous, which wants
to be free of its

Where is my
will? What is it
that says “I am
I,” or says “I will
not—not today” I
suppose it governs
by default. I am
too tired to put these
things to bed. My
body endures
obliquely–it does not
thrive, it does not
generate a will;
it sits in
itself, its opaque stink
of congealed time,
deadening of

Condemnation, debt,
remorse, duty—all
gravities with
different vectors.
Some pull from
the firmament,
some from below
the waters, from the
insides of the

The earth washes itself
of itself, and in
these rhythms is
a seasick nausea—
I, the sick, the guilty:
I am the vomit
of the body of the earth, and
I am like a tide
rolling back on
itself without


Hundreds of doors
open and close a
minute: revolving glass—
whirring ceaselessly

Crystalline flashes
wink outward

Something flutters
in my chest
A nest births a flurry
of swallows
with damaged
wings, beating
a slant,
idiotic tune
in the air.


They peel off
and tumble
out of line,
smashing against
the inside of
my ribcage like
breakers, making
red sea-
spray, vapor
and choked cries

Below the heavens,

blue circles cull bodies, the
damaged sink
into heaps of slab,
Dust-piles at
the broken edge of the
clearing—like cream
separating from skim





God has ceased to
tend to this machinery.
The stove is on,
the clock
broken from its
trajectory, the
world a
mute, anxious scream.

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