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.
Toxcatl…
!
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.
