Lately, death is everywhere.
It sits on the rim and recites
the contrition of unburied mad.

Nectar dusted glasses.

These shards raised you.
Contoured as cells
that neat flesh together.

How far we stretch
when flavours dull
and loose thoughts the last
we push around our tongue.

Demons that swirl,
unfolded for the world
in aching concession -
how sorrow leans heavy on the bones.

Meat and sacrilege,
these apparitions scream
in a plume of citrus;
saliva like flint
drawing moths to the table.

They gauge, every ground memory;
the feeding vessels
of freshly kneaded delirium.

I'll never shake that screech.
Piercing as brass embracing brass,
the sound of death still tepid
with the scent of rotting fruit.

We circle,
a grey scar between wheels
and the unresponsive telephone.

I clawed clean every last piece of static,
served on platters once wholesome
now plunged with the ailing sunset -
our last supper.