The mommy on the walls-
She boils, she is tall.
Mother, please don't boil
too hard now- Oh, God, no,
you need the fields to toil
for the sake of royal.
Are you really royal?
Were you ever royal?
Don't fucking stutter, please.
Don't stammer when I talk,
or she boils faster.
Boil, boil, boil-
As the orphans lose their
breath in the sun and sand.
They will toil a man.
Know how long they've been here?
Parents tasted sour.
I can still hear the screams
of gold-plated daughters
in the background of this
empty town- Empty town.
She is tired and brown-
Crispy now, almost fried,
but not too broiled, right?
For she is sizzling.
She will make a good chip.
YOU ARE READING
Incoherent Poetry from the Depths
Horror(The painting in the cover is by painter Nicola Samori) Do y'ever just wish to feel the chills of the ethereal down your spine? Have you wondered what life is like outside your material universe? Did you ever posit the idea, that a good bout of uns...
