syria

Fucked up ruinous portraits, all ivory blasted hollow to fit in these ceramic mosaics. Black caskets and hezbollah yellow, terroristic birds on a wire with caustic echo's.

It shall be for flocks, so sayeth the Lord. Skittish skinny arms, sunlight orchids, bereaved elms bent like filtered light through a battered window blind, it's bearable, these god-less, goddamn exploding barrels of burnt flowers.

A blustery winter mixture of snow and ice; an aftermath debris blood red and holding their dead children like blankets of starved tree limbs, flags and burlap sacks, they look like little skeletal cages, silver tracks in the snow, the birds look like tiny plague doctors or nigger priests perched on the curved rib of a makeshift pulpit.