My body is a rope between

two wet worlds

that crickets hop over.

Sinks gush in half-open kitchens,

I suck the grass pounded flat

under the scythe of artificial light,

feeding on the grease of discarded morsels,

jostled by meaty souls

as they pass from trash to trash

through plastic transparent hallways,

dumping foggy water

into evaporating channels,

carved by dead words

and indistinct actions,

erupted by a solar tongue.

The rift is mine, the radiant cursed

miles between rejected fragments,

disoriented vegetable shells

floating over heated rivers,

aurora borealis stung by devil sperm

and hung with amphibian fingers,

all mutants hatched in a dumpster's corner,

cleansed by such orbit-less moons,

are palpitating with me now.