set me up on a grim plateau
with these half-dead so-called men
and let me rip them all to shreds.
I am tired of this artificial peace
the glint of its tense web
waiting to be picked up
like a ring of swords.
Give me magic bitches now
or I will shit on the walls
of the temple. Run the faucets
out and dry up the water
so that I can drink death
from an ancient bottle
and bury the wound in glass.
Wrap the raging vines
up in a cute bowtie
let them go to work on my throat.
Anoint the snow with sun
ride ultraviolet scopes
down shrinkwrap clothes
and orange vapor
pines lining up
in bloody moonlight
my tongue is an ax
my arms the frenzy of injured pincers
my soul a centipede's drainpool
and the perch of a praying mantis
one giant crimson ear
listening to weightlifter theologians
pro wrestling political scientists
and their weightless follower drones
ready to bash them all
with a pyramid of painted bricks
painstakingly dissassembled
this stack of fever dreams
these human cigarettes
fully smoked.
No comments:
Post a Comment