I Feel Dead Fountains

The winning coincidence came over for food.
I tore my own head off and fed it to swans.
After the fountains of blood, speeches came out.
I must have been full of unsaid speeches.
Coincidence produced a book of things I said.
Pages of vaguely perfect heroes speaking extemporé.
Soon we were surrounded by hostile prose.
The effect of lines from fallen speeches fucking.
It was obvious that the future would be unpredictable.
I myself was now a crisis of obvious gravity.
Tiny submarines appeared and torpedoed the swans.
As they sank, I could see dead stars in their eyes.