The Age of Gunpowder

is where the blood spoils, or coils, essential to avoid Waiting Times. 
ATM machines, The World Bank, in spite of their gravities, are
naked on the inside, completely ignoring the queue of the crowd.

All of our noses are bloody, like that of the woman who was ambushed,
as if for "research"--a map of lost secrets throughout the days
more than spring, hungry for too long, "a devil woman" in the scene

with a sense of impetus, in particular, the desire, particularly small colors,
the transformation of coded passwords on the skull. Men, women,
made-up by the ghosts of the same name, afraid to speak.

What is Enforcement but playing with umbrellas & raining upon
the people, slotted as friends, allowing access to the locked doors
of Subpersonalities, the ice cracking, splitting, before exiting, before

the almanac speaks for itself. Gunpowder up-the-head, clutches of
theoretical junkies that bloody the eyes of the youth. I've looked on beauty
for too long without noticing the scarecrow, the properties within,

civilization with necks in the invisible guillotines. What else is non-existent?
Blood spills like rubies down the throats of potential interpretations.
The clear air speaks with clamorous valves. Infinite possibility revised.