The title and body optional, they drag like loose map lines of a desiccate cactus, if its pins or thorns were the bones of the mule deer's alongside the highway where crimsony two-toned stretch marks were either allergic reactions or hives crawling across all of our limbs, and I aimed at ferocious. My polydactyl ferocity plagued by gorges, oxygen-loss, staying awake for the 36th or 37th hour until the stray humming between us is just another
Symptom of your childhood ploys to see Mercury ooze from your day away from school, out of the thermometer, droplets oozed out of your lips like trending sarcophagi-

The estranged catalyst carried with us through the archetypal and errant weapon-systems our brain stems plagued our visions with, mulish and recalcitrant undulates in a meteor shower of plashing death up I-89. We came for them.

Until the moon cleaved its feral African-eye, peddling its feline claws through every inch and synonym for itching skin could bear red too. Inside a grave, I was the color of fire. Inside a grave, you were the conflagration of histamines and cold orange hands, and we were left with our twisted interstices lashing into the pock-marked hide of the devil-skin rock torment,

And we prayed for the ghost moose, the albicant sinewy strands of disease
In an inarticulate heap of antagonist and agony. Blistery, curmudgeonly mumps, our cold lips braying for the plague, the bleeding from our eyes, nose, feet.
You say you'd take twos and threes of non-batted lashes, unsavory nomenclatures for names no one, not even a doctor in 1985 could mispronounce the diagnosis for, and for what, the cross'd black diamond thatchwork of icicles forming on our appendages, Earth words rocked in a cacophony of ungodliness and sorrowful malcontent. And for a moment of mute apathy, what use you and I would give shivers and trills for one another, what etherized and idyllic blaspheming poltergeist you could claw from my flesh, as I could claw it from yours.

To be free of this disease of winter,
Abolish it in a canonical ablasement of
Ferocity and suffering,

Where cleverly the ovivorous fold harmonizes,
Thwarting the immeasurable Gods to tailor a saw for your arms and my arms. Insects scuttling our carcass in lazy-fair, only to be haphazardly decaying in or without of the red flesh, belly up, without this systematic **** of skin tremors shot by the likes of a Peterbilt, cocked and bullied, readied to candy up another inane banter of horn-slivered antelopes dancing their ghost weevils up to an inexplainable and implacatable chivalry our
Carcasses lie, and our crimsony skins lay half-awake to die.