Then one day our skin shed and our
organs misted, all that left was buzzings.
And some post-molting wore their old coats
like necromantic cyborgs, and some buzzed together to a bee.
But it took only one ghast accumulating of intertwined
perpendicular lines, the spider before the egg
who could fly across the Ouroboros gagging a new,
and cut the threads of astral, crimson nebulas anchoring
cabin on a hill
It awaits me still.
Hate, Loathing, and Pride, sit by the
indoor fire. And discuss disgust. Logs
of spit and mucus in an ivory stack, therein,
braketh not they for moon or sun. In abyss, engulfed
in a blister, of scarlet marsh and murky water. Of poison
their cups are filled; midnight blue, the cherubic wine of sorrow
I join once more my dearest friends and gaze into the fire's flat, eternally burned, lithium disk.
Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.
I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
It is a temporal
apple worm sort of fate, that
is no more contingent than a granite lake.
It's tail from my 9-5 jest, its fangs
In my present pips.
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
Behind the pillars
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.