Reincarnated as a bullet
and suffering a satanized affliction,
Lucifer swan dives through a ribcage.
Typewriter slings ink on parchment
like a money shot on a porcelain chest.
Moans like a banshee.
"It's the coldest summer on record.”
Black tide of over-proof pickles the insides,
beckoning from a plot of land:
“Come on home…”
Come home to mother.