Mercy
I.
I am pedantic in that crass, fictitious way,
the one that doesn’t push, but abstains whimsically
until I become everything that everyone knows.
II.
I am the spider
fat off the blood of a bloated
corpse too sleepy to notice
and I am also the silence
that affords that spider his ecstasy.
A Word On Mercy
Oh Mercy your reflection is scarce
in that dusty mirror you flashed
us from. You can keep your balding
generals, mustaches curling
with fervor to their armpits
where they tangle with perspiration.
My mirrors are flush with blood,
we spit on the hems of your smoky
curtsies & shave with bayonets.
Whiskey is our aftershave.
We have no use for you until
we are beyond you.
—From postcards, a collaboration between Aaron McNally and Friedrich Kerksiek