icy freedom cracks the hull
death's ode screeching to a hault
i named the ratchet in my skull
"Stillbourne Small, the catapault"

found wading in marshy bogs of chuke
saved by crows and carrion alive
woven by blood and the almighty nuke
seeds from whence i was derived

perfect gods and perfect men
can't live outside their pastel pens
there's work to do: the dirty, the wet
and i haven...

Read and leave comments (2)