The world,

steeped of its boundaries,

leaving an unholy drink,

for sanctity and

clans of grenades,

poking in through perforated bones.

Age always waits,

hovering in embryonic state.

Pulsing in, this lack of dignity,

creeping in, in spindly heaves.

Plucking the seeds,

seeping with juice,

fetid and sticky on hands. Rejection

as long as the shuddering air.

And bones humming listlessly,

censored disparity.

Cells desponding,

finality for function, copulation of machinery.

I am vulnerable and empty,

onyx nails switching rings.

A myriad of answers,

the facts resiling.

In retrospect

he circumvents the falsity.

"Oh, I confess.

my acts were more selfish

than time could represent."

How could anyone fear vanity

in this,

mint green, a mockery?

Polka dot vision failing again,

welcome flashes of neon,

choosing not to distinguish

the anatomy

of this heavy dash of bitter liquid,

brazenly dripping on the invisible half,

bending like cartilage,

structured like ribs.

Where the earth was ground, ground to the quick,

Closing in on the core, almost levitation.

Where we surfaced

from the pine needle nest,

a net of pine cones and

Phaeton's hair,

burning,

where the lore matured

in only seconds.