A foundry smells dead in the lowlight. A foundry rots and dreams of a vampire machine buried beneath the iron floor smacking its black lips. A foundry seeps its pipe shit into the souls of cities. A foundry, brimming with a slow lust for violence, heats all living things to one thousand degrees. And it is the vampire. And it is the machine. And, given enough time and fuel, it can heat death as well. It can weld it to the living.
I will tell you that I came to this foundry to have a daughter. I will tell you that I am black and green and ghost and screwed together at the joints. I will tell you that, in my own way, I am possessed of a body with open sores. Understand that, upon the insertion of rods of varying length and thickness into my sores, an engine is born. An engine is a daughter. An engine is a heart.
My daughter is so beautiful. She pools so rainbow in the oil. My daughter ripped three men limb from limb. My daughter is a thresher. If I can speak briefly on the state of her kneecaps, I might say they are of a finer metal than anything presently holding up the towering structures in your downtowns. And when your towers burn and collapse, my daughter will be there eating a burnt match. Eventually, she will rip me limb from limb. She will say a prayer and pour perfume over my jangly corpse in the smelter.
And so, here in the foundry, the cycle of swallowing and spitting up and squealing purrs on like a motor. And so the darkness here is singular and expanding. And so the industry grows like a cock. And the relationship between darkness and industry stays circular. And the relationship between fathers and daughters is the destruction of a city. The destruction of a city is a molten paradise—only daughters swimming in the glowing wreckage.
||FANG GIRL DOTH GLOW IN THE WINTEROID FOREST||
In the blizzard forest of lights, I follow the obsidian footpath and leave a trail of blood. In the blizzard forest of lights, I follow the midnight moon crooned through a canopy of wisteria. The wisteria clutters and my fresh wound discharges. The wisteria mutters low with baritone hum and my wound slowly sows itself shut. My wound and the pus of remembrance. How the acrid smell of my wound in the snowy air, how draws its bile breath through the rip in my leather, how clot the bile is blue, how performs as a sealant. In low tones the wisteria. The wisteria low intones a woodhymn.
A hymn for owls and owls do gather and owls do pick skitter bugs from wooden knots in the antediluvian bark. A hymn for seeds and seeds do pixie scatter and seeds do germinate in pretty pores across the withered earthface. I strum my vocal cords, sonic stack verdant sine waves, I vibrate at a relative frequency to the hymn. I commune, I congruence coil with the pyretic choir. Quiver call us all to a shared spirit in snow, no matter my vampire, no matter my cybernetic. I of transistor, of skin, of pus, of fang—I spark fully in the harmonious howl.
I secrete and I sing. I secrete and I sing.
And the path shines forward. I take a rock from the base of one tree and lick the moss. I lick the flourish moss its basal current. What moss memento percolate in my esophageal mourning, what edible my transubstantial flame, what mixture my genome and the forest. The snow it blows sideways and the rocks they shimmy on in the telekinetic quake. On toward the glade.
If bomb for an ugly monument. If destruction awakens lust. If mutate is a star’s design. If clear is a reduction of all life to zero. If in my mind the inhabitants were always aluminum. If they shone silver in the dawn. If they split shadow now amongst the darkening fields. If they ash the topsoil / ash the worm / ash the jungle gym / ash the hospitals / ash the boy / ash the girl / ash the peach / ash the grim garden / ash the cut / ash the breathe.
Black wires running to the red temples. I see only the most fiberoptic hymns bleed into the stoneheart spirits of drowned children. I see only how those children wail orange. I see only how they divide and conquer the wretched world. I see only how they quake the crust. I see only how they hurricane pure evil. I see only how they skin themselves on the nearby rocks.
Six sleeping giants dismembered prayerful along the shore. Quiver and fell. Mangled split bodies metal foaming out into sea. Waves of emerald sick spill of irradiatewater glow now lap at their heels. Such snoring skyscrapers and one hundred stories and dream of Rin’s kill and ever bound to rot and to the city.
Rin comes down the highway in leather and rubber. The clanging bells sound out for her in the center of the organ district. Whatever her sword cleans will soak back into the concrete. Whatever her gun fucks the city will raise as its own.
JEFFREY LANCE is a poet and musician from the apocalyptically flat plains of West Texas, where he currently lives. He received an MFA from the University of Mississippi, served as a Senior Co-Editor for Yalobusha Review, and currently studies Computer Engineering. He can typically be found watching all three thousand seasons of Supernatural with his partner, Andrea.