Between the war of suppressions

I linger and wait, like a good

hyena, for my nasty scraps.

I prefer sluts, I prefer

torn things that glint

with lovely wounds.

I like dented knick knack fragments

and discarded hunks of old technology.

Censorship of dark millenia

has torn a hole in my being.

Shape shifting contours

nevertheless are bowed

hotly into existence.

The poles of android light

and hologram chainsaws

lean into the weight

of tall undead forests.

The shores are washed away

by rafts of flowers

all titles for the unseen idol

cast down on bloody stones.