Vail tied to a weathering mask
with a child in tow
who grows swollen

And swells like his mother
from which he reluctantly
reared his head

In what was called The Cadaver Twist
A ******* accident, no less

No virtue in a conscience yet to breech
A lesson likely learned early
If only ...

Paternal instinct as the peripheral
responds autonomously to the bottle
with intervals of grease pouring
down the gullet

The rain decimates in torrential strife
Laying in bog known as
What Once Was

The second circle the seventh time.
Assyria busting at the seams.

The cantos of infanticide,
                              
                     ­            breaching
                                    
                  ­                    brackish water's deep.

Caught in a tank
with the chimes bristling above.
Slime hanging in the tension
that breaks bones.

Fair maid with a
stiletto pick.
Stop pressing, my dear.

In fear of looking up
anticipating two lungs capsized.
A plummeting vessel praying
through the facetious clouds.

Dawn takes over
and we refuse to stop.
Locked in embrace:
A false foot embedded
in the substrate.

Kelp explosions
holding us lightly,
grazing as we float
toward the surface.

Skeletons tangled in a mess
like that summer when you looked your best.

Take the last breath,
plunging the depths
to find at the bottom
a two-metre
tube worm.

Squirming as my lungs burst.
Post-partem.
Pre-historic.
Fleeting in the tunnel light
thats eaten up by its
benthic brother.

There has been
oppression
further back than
ball and chain gangways
in droves
as doves flew freely before them.

All the way
up until today,
when anonymity is entitled
to the one who
delivers this deadly recoil.

Think not in terms
of tones
bestowed upon us.

Some of us welcome it.
Regardless,
it is.

The most ****** up thing
before the trigger releases rounds
into your intentions to be
is the thought:
"She is this,"
as you take.

Us and Them
make us black and white
with the same hot, red blood spilling on the concrete.

some dogs who sleep ay night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coimng down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you've been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here's a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.

Death
is
the
home
of
maggots.
I
am
its
carrion.