1520 c/o Ben Brooks

The massacre in the main temple, Pedro grows restless

Sat in mustard light on The Patio of Gods. Smoke earth, trade fruits, disrobe and clothe yourselves in sun. A cyclone of ankles. Upper class Aztecs popping bodies, breathing heavy.

Wide drum whisper, fingers in ears all.

Sing louder, tear your throats. Vomit waves. Be selfish; sell praise to the God for grain and victory. Call with whistles, shells, brass. Scream them. There are clouds above your heads still whole.



Speared. Struck. Arms. Torn. Calves. Thighs. Bowels. Laughter.

Eagle, Canestalk, Snake of mirrors; each gate closed. Climb the walls, be peeled. Play dead. Run, trip on gut.

Fuck Spain.

Vermillion in the cracks of stone, rusts beneath a sun lower. Splash in scarlet.

Gates birthing iron town fodder, cry for captains, martial lament with the lemon arrows of birds now in the frames of Spaniards.