You were made into material.
You – once kin, once foes,
once the neutral chewing of flesh and waste

You were broken down into sources,
into patterns,
into groaning books of the age

Thus your vanished lives
were granted a crumb of sense

Now you lie pressed and mute
like leaves in Linnaeus’ tombs of green,
numbered in my ledgers of memory,
where even the smallest fool is pinned,
even the palest soul weighed and mocked,
fed into the poison-script of the present age

You are the first grotesques.
The seed of every tale

Your dull faces are summoned at will,
piled with the hollow kin of my blood,
good for nothing but word-rituals,
for sharpened chants and crafted scorn

You were dragged into judgment,
beaten – not to bleed in court,
but enough to mark forever

You became fuel
for the roaring nightmares of now,
for chronicles of disgrace,
small devils dressed as power,
singular failures of towns of filth,
of schools, wards, crews, beds of sickness

You are the types

Slaughtered line by line.
Page by page.
Skin to spine.

At last spoken.
At last used

Know your doubles.
Rise in your pride