Strike a partition. Kill the ground. Kill its sordid lies.
Kill it in patience. Kill it like killing is birthing.
Kill it like killing is birthing.
Like birthing is stealing. Like you snatched the soul
from a man in pajamas. Kill like you can.

With ugliness in your mouth.
Your pellucid cells burping like war machines.
Kill like consumption is love. And desire grace.

Climb atop my water lungs. And drag a steel smile through
me like a hymn. 
Hug my cheekbone with the heel of your shoe. Let it sketch
sirens in my sky. Come, climb atop me. My skin is grafted,
too many deserts to call it a rose. Too many organs
to call it an ensemble.

Come, you, Man. Come like you always have.
With your head buried behind your slate green eyes.
Come to me like War. 
Don't men love their little wars?
Standing on cliffs, their vantage grounds, where they display power like 
a mouth gun. Spewing into a methane sky.

Come, you. You reading this. You with the desire to kill.
You with your God. You with your greater goodness. With your sense of purpose.
Come, lie on me, kill me slowly in endearing strokes.

Who wouldn't love to die in the name of God? Who minds salvation?
I sure will meet you there.
You, with your God on your shoulders. Like he's too feeble to
dissolve the life he shapes. Like tides only recede and winds never sever.

© Aakriti Kuntal

2 thoughts on “For Murder is Love.Murder is Religion.

  1. Oh my God on your shoulders. That is powerful and convicting. Those murderers/lovers carrying so-called God like they might a child to see a parade above the crowd. This poem is weaponry at its most ancient and advanced.

    Liked by 1 person

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