Destroyed city scapes lifted from concrete prisons,
old white men in traditional Native-American headdress,
a broken sky with holes dropping satan-spawn...

Flowers turning to sickly people,
their petals becoming their bodies,
their stems becoming their eyes,
their pollen becoming polluting coughs.

Eyes crying infected blood,
teeth dripping sour milk,
stomachs shouting for more bread crust,
hands becoming stubs,
unable to grasp the meaning of life.

Noses expelling gastric juices,
legs becoming hairy arms,
hairy arms becoming the nostrils,
does becoming pointed talons,
clawing away at the filaments,
of flesh and bone.

There is always method
to my madness.