the forked tongue of lachrymosity
slips out of carnage draped in silver
corrosion is far from simple you see—
i. it starts off with an itch in your throat
dolour bubbling in the larynx
the self-parasitic urge to ruin
ii. summer air is heavy
with a thousand heaved breaths
and kisses of vivification for the dead
iii. four walls stare impassively
at the disembodied miasma of perjury
its always funny to flinch at concern
but not at murder
iv. desperation leaks out of open wounds
not cauterized, left aggrandized
sanity off kilter on a balance beam
v. volcanic veins on pale wrists
volatility snaked around heartstrings
decay advertised as a form of
preservation!
vi. an axe an emperor
a lamb the widow
the power to execute
lies not just in the palm of the plague
carmine melancholia
marked like quilts on satin
when you're rotting in your grave,
do you think of all you've left behind?
