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Powerfully pointless.

"1 SEPTEMBER 1939

The first scattering rain on the Polish cities.
That afternoon a man squat' on the shore
Tearing a square of shining cellophane.
Some easily, some in evident torment tore,
Some for a time resisted, and then burst.
All this depended on fidelity.
One was blown out and borne off by the waters,
The man was tortured by the sound ol rain.

Children were sent from London in the morning
But not the sound of children reached his ear.
He found a mangled leather by the lake,
Lost in the destructive sand this year
Like feathery independence, hope. His shadow
Lay on the sand before him, under the lake
As under the ruined library our learning.
The children play in the waves until they break.

The Bear crept under the Eagle's wing and lay
Snarling; the other animals showed fear,
Europe darkened its cities. The man wept.
Considering the light which had been there,
The leathered gull against the twilight flying.
As the little waves ate away the shore
The cellophane, dismembered, blew away.
The animals ran, the Eagle soared and dropt."

--John Berryman

"...the necropolitical management of annihilation requires hiding of corpses."

"I want you to think of critique as a point of generosity."

- Vievee Francis (via @EverySongIveEve)

The Hand of Glory.