Emaciate Cleopatra, Notebook Six

Precipitation tastes metallic, but still–
melts more cooperatively than
your silken carcasses,
in my stomach of bones.

Cherries on the edge of preservation
and past prime–
nestle fondly with the spiders
and their malnourished legs,
prod the sticky with those sticks–
should be more;
those sticks…

Crickets of conscience,
whisper subtleties
and ROAR obscenities;
feats of strength for the misguided
and melting.

Flesh freezes at zero,
glosses at one–
is lovely that way,
ice my blues grey.

Ascension–
the ectoplasm of starvers
molds my Victorian nutrients–
pretty enough…