Landscape with Several Small Fires
I like dead things, says the landscape. They cannot hurt me. The armies swarm the cities of the yellow field and burn them down. There’s not enough room for us to be ourselves, say the soldiers streaming across the plains, So you will have to be pushed out of the way.
We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows— they expand the range of the species. Goldmine, goldmine, landmine. War, and the art of war, and the landscape of war. Grant me freedom from objects, says the painting. I will help you, says the paint.
More territories. We sat in our tanks and rolled over our enemies. We trampled everything into noise and mud. Willpower, gunpowder, concussive thunder. Pink, orange, red, orange dreaming red. I am the fire, says the fire. My body is a graveyard,
says the landscape. You’re welcome, says the landscape. Gold bodies on the red, red ground. I paint in the wounds. Socket, says the shoulder. Shoulder, says the socket. Let’s kill everything, says everything else. Smeared night, smudged dawn. I saw him fall. Them,
falling. Split and felled and pounded into the ground. We knocked the heads off the statuary, deprived the landmarks of any meaning. Victory swelling in the occupation. History is painted by the winners. Keep your paints wet. Trust me, I have things to say.