Vices and obligtions, every day.
The only constants I know well enough -
The only ones I trust.
The hundreds of carnalities we swallow daily
Aged for twenty years inside a body too translucent for
The acridity of our
Imagined savior.
Our
Impartial parent
And grave digger.
Fermenting, now spoiled -
Those who drink the blood of such a redeemer
Will intoxicate, lose themselves
in the
impossibility
of such an existence
And fall, fallow, into the ground below to become something
alive but not living
They will give rise, once more, to a new generation of
fruiting bodies
Waiting for consumption by the next
eager victim.