Do you know
where the wild things grow ?
In the unlit recesses of a tormented imagination,
a small girl holds a switchblade.
The bees have grown tired of their honeycomb.
The ants are abandoning their hill.
A shark swims slowly in,
blood drips out of the vein
How does it feel when your parents die ?
Similar to loosing the matching sock I have heard.

The Popes beady eyes burning in the mouth of a Leviathan
as
The blood pours from saints and sinners alike.
The stigmata chooses indiscriminately
like an addiction
to the false ecstasy
of religious experience.
Oh Saint Francis!
Where do the wild things grow ?
Oh Saint Anthony!
Help me find my mind?
Oh can anyone tell me?
What is this human race…
?