Slipsilk

Silkworms by the pocketfuls
weave some inconsistent
thinking pattern inkblots
up on the star-belly ceiling
of atmospheric flab.
They all relate beauty to
inner linings,
beauty something that's to be...
inside and out,
vital to and associated with breathing,
necessary to survive in the mud-slick,
thorn-footed,
grit-formatted deception-pit of the "real" world.
Oh, but, this all typical of interactive life forms
that halfheartedly take on the shape
of a curdled vomit's innermost shade of vulgarity.
God, the reality of Hell's widening surface
right on the tip of her tongue of gravel,
pale and polished, shimmering of falling grace,
halos down throats, ether digested delightfully.
No shame, no sense slips between
'beautiful' desires and damnation of interconnecting worlds
of evils, lies, and no reason to watch with curious eyes
as it all collides and bleeds as one,
breathes as one,
and breeds as one.