John Ashcroft

by Svetlana Gagarin

Thin pregnant whispers. Eyes proceed,
clop-clop, down endless Escher stairs;
These insect realms, these foreign sands --
Mere power, terror, abattoirs,
And furtive plans;
All the world a screen and all the screen,
A vertigo of pixels,
Unsecular grafitti,
Engirding nihilismus:
Apocalype in endgame.

Oh my little foe --
Do not leave me.
Do not go.