An Ode to Revulsion

If black holes really squish you into spaghetti

I’d imagine the end result would resemble your vile, unshaven grin.

If the smell of burning plastic had corporeal form, you’d embody it,

A burnt out husk of hospital fluids and camel piss.

If god’s hand ever slipped on the chisel it slipped on your mold,

A permanent catastrophe Pandora would have died rather than release.

Creative calamity, artistic vomit, murdered violinist caught mid-note forever stuck on a strangled high C, you’d nauseate Achilles.