Moldy scab, leaf-like scars…
Lick apart rotting your palms
and claw together what you want.

The centerpiece, a crown of sepulchers
with seraphs moaning sick,
forgotten lies beneath
cold-blooded breath.
Loitering in this tragic sector,

ablating gutted spirits
(with cropped cobweb dreams)
all the time.

Strung together…

But in never quite the same formation...
I do not linger in present tense…
Serpent lip mumbles and quivers…

Decomposing and leaking formaldehyde…

Saliva-clenched meat-babes,

translucent powered-heart.

Nestled in between coaxing mistruths

and flesh-profiteering.

Anti-hero butcher-god’s mangled forearms
are equivalent to a rapturous release.
And split lifelines are floating in candle-cups,
and yet I breathe (slightly sighing, smiling).

Strung together…

But in never quite the same formation...
I do not linger in present tense…
Serpent lip mumbles and quivers…

Decomposing and leaking formaldehyde…