Shrivelled grapes hanging from the chin––
Maldoror, bedmate, scumped lover licking
my sclera sans cease and
later
fisting
each other into purple black swellings and pressing
on it,
the big clot at the heart of the heart
street manias filing our teeth
with flails of our own devising
and the Terror expressed as glands in illness
O Mother! Your son has a wonderful illness!
The fringe livens with excess
Scowled into stray threads I run through
my fingers
to clutch at
throats
reinvigorate carrion
bloom
coming up
fungal
the deceased’s new liberties, death rhetoric
eating spaniels’ worth of hatred
lunging at clustered scapulae
hung ornamental and gilt
by the red clenching,
the swollen teeth,
the fire lit from wicks of scalp
and no holy ghost observant
but now crawling out of my mouth
(the self of self
—O me, O me—)
heatplunge naught extinguisht,
gentlemen on the frenze,
bent, o bending
snapt spine of folded razors
releasing pent scaffolds of wrath