This place of jinxes and cracked pavement,
flinches, blinks with the wind,
rests with the mutants–
as Metamorphoses Metro.
Grooms come here to shed the wings of their wives,
test undead palettes on the flesh of chunking chins
and rashes of spreading Hives.
Train lights tease and flicker only once,
leaving these partial beings to find their way in the dark.
Skins receive sweat,
interdiscipline reigns as chaos snows.
Ashen tracks proportionate to groaning bones,
provide dirty footing in this changeling world
of the lonesome and the loathesome.
In the far corner of the Metro, the Countess bathes in waters thick,
her highness naked–
She pecks at her open wounds and speckled skins,
unwinding yarns of being.
Her fixtures and bones crumble,
in this tub in the far corner of the Metro–
leaving only teeth floating,
left for changeling inspection–
in Metamorphoses Metro.