It was a hot summer day and freshly hatched flies
darkened your massive window bay.
Inside your decaying bloated carcass
millions of larvae are eating your flesh
they are eating you slowly away.
Your room had such a rancid stench
The New London Day gave it away
how long you laid all alone on the floor
four days old it was on your piano bench
out your body bag I saw a single fly take flight
in the embalming room that only leads to a big fight.
Rule is, turn out all the lights and open the door
Because they will then take to the air and bother you no more.
For a perfect viewing you must be purged of your infestation.
Step One, hook your nostril to a rubber hose,
Step Two, turn up the pressure so the water flows,
Step Three, push on your chest to break up there home, I call it their nest,
Step Four, Watch them all swim for their life as they exit out the other side of your nose.
I have a fetish for death I need to touch with my bare hand
slowly combing your hair with my fingers strand by strand.
I take out my Sterling Silver Mirror and then place it upon your frigged lips
and then I have to then put on a plastic frown when I see no BREATH!!!!
anthology . meat metamorphosis
a door for this place swings open shut wide with a rushing wind
pushing force of key stroke a brain hemorrhage . wonderful fireworks in the head no one will ever see except you when you
close your eyes for a brief moment in disbelief at your Own weariness . vision wavering :::
Provost email strife
looks like city scape side ways .
a book shelf or colon : running through remains of your meals .
why act this way when An entire field of blossoming tragedies
await your lying death.
they build plush caskets for this reason purposefully . carrying you on like a doll in a wood working
the walls of city are built with the ore
of another planet
for the primitive explorative purposes of none other than the needless forth war .
some kind of crusade, they said, "a revival of the spirit". i am a desk. you write accident when your pen slips the page .
glasses 'you look beautiful'
her teeth are a little yellow, she
brushes in the morning. somehow
they're still a Colgate white. she mouths
Iluvu eyes squint quiet smile arches it's
spine and finger caresses the barely stubble of my face. her blonde peach fuzz mini moustache tilts left and kisses false worry, charisma. she takes
it as insult when I read line about peach
fuzz moustache. obligatory insult shes a
woman, women don't have moustaches
haha she stretches like a resting cat and
returns to thought as my suicide
hangover crunches into a headache of
I met a man today,
with a great triangular moustache,
and a carpet of a beard,
with a little fracture for a mouth.
Bewildered eyes and an angular posture.
His brutish stomp (thunderous among the sleepy books) was awkward
and solitary, constantly echoing his pathway.
I met a deaf man today, blissfully unaware of the
weight of his footsteps.
the mother beside him pulls disease like ivy from the wall. he puts his glove where her breast should be. with a finger of hers she traces the moustache drawn on his visor. I like this scene because I have kids.