Barge of person, growth of intrusion,
drink of neon, acidic rain–
flatters outward change.
I gathered your necrophaese,
strings of hair ripened and passed on,
grinded against your stiff–
regular badge of the dead and gone.
My experimental, you dripped,
opiates of garbage and formaldehyde tricklings,
my suckled beastling–
lips upon you, I starved you dry,
as the story of corpses goes…
Fairytales of death, lanterns and basements,
balding bodies hunger for the sun–
a passive voice in the dark.
I needed your necrophaese,
your strands of musical veins–
I could play against you,
make you suffer, lust after cold wings.
With my shovel I picked at your puzzle,
collection of meat for porous, sweating buzzard,
death becomes those stripped of pride in this–
room full of ticking clocks,
needlework en pointe,
hollow queues to move–
no air for those who die.
My sweet project of hacksaw and loving bone,
you grew of faint odour–
Wonderful work! austere and enchanting!
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work, Peter!
I listened to you on the Surreal Grotesque podcast today 🙂 Great job! Great work!
Wow, thank you so very much! =)