Thursday, January 17, 2019

The stage slithers to my feet.
Everybody wants their god
to touch me first.
Hot globes of flesh dripping
with smashed brains.
Trays of bright alfalfa
slipping through a cracked door.

Strung-up legs in the eye
of a planted camera.
Vine-spun air winding
around a coffee table,
catching light in skulls.

Walls chalk foundations
with sliding autopilot
zagging the brief skin's
latchkey octopus of fingers
searching attic ribs.

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