Dribble I, rusted spheres of number and
ethnicity. My small Hanoi tower, emergent in
sweaty purlicues, yearn for mushroom dish.
I pocket them and once more rinse to the
other side of my frame to await the inquisitors
in a St. Petersburg ’s sleep.

I tear my bones
To try and not
Hear the drones,
Drill in dot.

But soil so ill
Is where I tread.
Shriek when fill
Buddhist debts.

Behind the pillars
In cenotaphs,
Edge killers
Of my calfs

I bread bogged down.
So they would claim
The forest crown,
Clear my name.

Fear my ingrowns!
Alas, they rot,
Drink the drones,
Drill in dot.

Who is he?
Who is he?
Skull and bones and only meat.
And nearer soon he’ll be dust.
Tremble, quiver, quake, and quaver
He'll grind himself to a crust.

Who are you?
Who are you?
Any inch from any hue.
Hunching back and dainty eyes.
Swamp root spiral for a tail.
A master of my ghoulish dyes.

Wicked green candle
light glows through her teeth gaps, as
she forces a smile.

My own soul left me.
Ire gulfed me till I found out,
‘twas seeking a home

Cheeks: in ***** hue they
Glow, hide his wrinkly soggy
Eyes, give life to corpse.

In empty cells of buzzing hives,
In purple lights of summer nights,
Proliferate the dying sprites.

I must admit I often seek
This needle dotted anti-noise,
For in this static ever-gloom,
I hear my old friend's voice.