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Wreck & Reference
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Apollo Beneath The Whip
The simple slave, in sweat-soaked sheets, aims his shackles, and cuts off his hands. The simple slave, in smoggy pantheon, aims for release, and cuts off his head. Apollo falls asleep behind the wheel. A scar reopens to a wound and pleads in a whimper for infection. And now this great dying beast, that I've chained round my neck, in a torrent of feathers, a face of paper cuts. Fragile tributaries of blood stain powder white wings, framed and catalogued for collection. The simple slave, in fallow fields, shrugs off his burden, and falls asleep.
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