I was born to sow pain into this earth.
To touch the long tables for feasting
and make them shine with poison.
Moving floors on chains
and the spit clay basin.
Forks and shovels dangling
from a sheet of vines
in the hellish air
around my head.
Circuits of white fire
scraping down the evil backdrop.

I know I am wanted:
so many yield to this kind of hurt.
Fit for yuks, a blond yanker
open and empty headed as a goblet
plunging over the hillside's cliff of wet lips
cursing the stragglers' inward faces
for staying alive, their meekness toxic.

Mouth a smashed berry
eyes hacked eggs
thick steps lost
to the gash of the taint below.
Yarn on pipes
trickling the rust of a gravestone.