Gross hypocrisy turning round every corner
funneling babies to the coroner.
No one looks so no one sees the horror
they embody, everything critiqued by the chatterbox
hiding lack of self-esteem – do you even know what it means? Look up the etymology – you’ve no excuse not to seek, for Google is already your King – even now you’re evaluating – evaluate me, be meat in deed, I’ll not foil your creed –
with embellishment they express the spin, and sneeze and breed the sleaze
to cover up their guilty sleeves
knotted with proofs of needle pricks,
cinnamon burns and sanguine wounds, oozing scabs, legions of lesions, festering,
a map of their souls, fearing the gross whole, the NC-17, but glorying in wars of the world and defeat of the gourd, digging as ticks
spotting a fever, rotting holes no Lever can hose – the stink rises
and covers it all, filling the atmosphere –
layers on layers of enzymotic dots
that eat out their eyes, fill their empty lungs,
and foil their brains with gaseous fumes
among the dead dunes dug in plumes,
– a few birds still fly, but fly still, mute,
because the air of the masses is dead,
and sound doesn’t carry
except to carrion
who rot in their own way,
aware of the rifts, airways filled with contagion-
Who can lift the stagnation?
How can any be immune
other than through quarantine… or the loon?
And thus how can any be saved
when the saviors are corpses in cold graves
and the corps are headless mummies agape
and mimmicks of the worst they see – is
the only answer surgery? To die is to live again, but is it
life if living is swallowing the dead,
and the living cannot course freely without
being fondled by grasping clay grey fingers,
wet with the slime of depravity, insanity,
flailing blindly at every breath?
One can only live so long on dead flesh.